Monday
by La Cidiana
Summary: In the past: Photographs and family feuds. In the present: Coffee and file cabinets. In the future: Corporate scandal and scars on skin. What’s to become of all of this?
1. Morning Clouds

**Monday**

by DarkMutatedBrock

*~*~*

**Summary: **A certain pilot discovers something strange in his attic and goes to lengths to figure out how it got there. Some certain people in blue suits have become temporary bounty hunters, and they're after mysterious murderer in the ruins of Midgar. And all the while, we learn about the events that came and went thirty years ago that led to all of this... (Dark and twisted.)

*~*~*

**Extra-Specially Special thanks to Blue9Tiger** for her continued patience with my laziness! XD But seriously, you've been so amazingly supportive of my writing and tolerant of my stupidity and nitpicking and stuff that you deserve a medal or something. Hurrah! ^_^

**A/N: **You might notice some major plot similarities between my fanfictions and the ones authored by Blue9Tiger. Well, don't worry, we haven't copied each other illegally or anything. XD We RP together, co-write together and are basically big internet buddies, so we usually use plot theories/ideas that we come up with together in our fanfictions, although they're always a little bit different.

Oh, yes, one more thing. Weird plot twists galore. ::Grin:: Oh, how I love my convoluted plot theories... Characters who have large parts in this fic other than Cid are Vincent, Hojo, the Turks, Rufus, Shera, Lucrecia, Gast, and, um, people. And yes, Hojo is portrayed sympathetically for the most part!!! WOOHOO!!!

Do NOT read if you don't like characters portrayed in unorthodox ways... Although all people who seem out-of-character will have their actions explained by the end of the fic....

Oh, yeah, and one last thing, this fic is not CidxVincent although they're both main characters. There ARE, however, a couple of strange pairings...

**Rated R **due to lotsa profanity, some adult themes, and mebbe some gratuitous violence later on.

Now, on to the fic!

*~*~*

**Chapter 1: **Morning Clouds

*~*~*

_Monday._

_It was Monday again._

_It always came this way when he fell asleep. His first awareness in his dreams... Monday. It was always Monday. He would lay there on his bed for a moment, staring up at the cracked, white ceiling with blue eyes that were dullened by years of ignorance and regret. And running. Always running, whether it be from his past, from his future, and now, from death. Hah. He never thought he'd be so close to death until it had stared him right in the face in the infernal pits of the Northern Crater, blasting his entire body full force with the power so rage-filled that it seemed to devour the solar system in a matter of minutes. He'd fallen then, though he didn't want to admit it--he'd fallen so hard from the first blow of energy that the pain of white-hot fire searing through his bones didn't register until a second later, when the damned angel of Hell had ceased its fury and waited mockingly for attacks against it that would only be used toothpicks being stabbed into its skin._

_That's the way he remembered it anyway. And in a jumble, just like that, not knowing at the end of his whirling thoughts who was the spawn of Hell---him, or the angel---because he didn't even know his own name, really._

_Round and round and round he went, tumbling to the ground that was suddenly a hundred feet away from his back until he hit it--then, it felt as if it was all around him, choking him, depriving his lungs of air as he slid backwards, scraping the exposed elbows of his arms on the rough terrain of the cavern they were fighting in. The cavern at the center of the _**planet_, _**_damnit._

_He laid sprawled out on the ground, his eyes wide open as he stared with fierce intensity and yet saw nothing but spots of black and white. Momentarily, he would be pulled out of his nightmare and realize he was looking at the damned ceiling again. Then, he would blink, and he'd be back in Hell, wishing he was dead so that all the pain would go away. Pain that made him cry out, gasp, and then cause his left hand to spasm as he tried desperately to reach for his weapon. But his limbs--his limbs were numb as his brain seemed to shut down its senses, overwhelmed by the intense---the intense-----_**PAIN**_ that was closing in on him._

_His eyes jerked to the right and then to the left as he tried to see something through the spots, squinting his eyes but then widening them again as another wave of pain crashed into his spine and slowly infested every inch of his known body. There was another blast, a finishing blow directed at his two comrades at both his sides. He vaguely noticed the man to the left--the one with blonde, almost bleached hair that was completely saturated with hair gel--reach his limit break, but just as the swordsman lunged towards his opponent, the angel raised his one hand, a smirk upon his face as he waved his fingers and then pointed them toward its attacker. Spikey didn't stand a chance; he was thrown against the ground just as his companion had been, and even then, the sound of his skull cracking against the cold ground could only be barely discerned over the angel--Sephiroth the Seraph's--laughter._

_It was becoming clearer now, and Cid wasn't enjoying it. Cid.... that was his name, wasn't it? Yeah, that's the name he always cursed himself by and wondered about, wondering why it sounded so wrong... So simple.... He could've changed it. He knew he could've. But what was the point? He'd used it so damn long that it was impossible to answer by anything else.... anymore...._

_The dream proceeded._

_The blood from the back of Spikey's--Cloud's?--head seeped into the cracks in the stones on which he had fallen. The sword held in his hands--Ultima, one of the planet's gifts--fell from the grip of his gloves, devoid of energy and lifeless without the life force of its owner. His companion, frozen in horror and agony, was only able to stare at the supposed SOLDIER's eyes as they looked on into nothingness, dead and emotionless._

God,_ Cid remembered thinking as he looked with clouded eyes towards the pool of crimson liquid that was pooling around the back of the kid's head. _We're not gonna make it out of here...

_Then, a flash of red with a tinge of black. Cid instinctively jerked his head to the side, feeling even more pain shoot up his spine as he did so. Gothman.... Now, Gothman, maybe _**he**_stood a chance. Maybe. Depended on how far it was 'till he pulled his damn transformation trick...._

_Vincent dodged and ducked, jumped and crouched. He was everywhere at once at yet nowhere at all, as endless rounds of bullets were fired from his prided gun--the one that his goddamn dead girlfriend had given him. Sephiroth seemed somewhat annoyed that he hadn't pulverized the entire party in record time, and seemed even more irritated that _this_ little bugger actually dared to **dodge** his physical attacks so well._

_Vincent finally fell into a crouched position, and even though he had successfully avoided his opponents attacks thus far, he seemed a hell lot more tired out than the god he was fighting._

_Cid vaguely noticed Sephiroth smile._

Oh, hell no, Gothman.... _He saw the white, limestone walls of the cavern that they were trapped in suddenly turn a deep, dark shade of black. _Don't let him take you out....

_"Supernova," Sephiroth whispered in a voice that could crack a mountain._

_Whoosh._

_Bang._

_Searing pain. Agony. Torment. Again. Cid nearly cried from the fire that he now felt eating at his flesh. Nearly. He wasn't _**that **_much of a chickenwuss, with everything else he'd been through. He had scars to prove it..._

_Scars._

_Oh, God, don't think of the scars..._

_But.... but what if...._

_....I could... it could.... maybe...._

_DON'T THINK OF THE** GOD_DAMN_SCARS.**_

_Cid jerked to the side, groaning as he felt the fire of torn skin and muscle mixing with the warm sensation of blood running down his arm. It was a dream now and it had almost been a dream then--some kind of insane, pain-numbing nightmare--as he clutched the wound on his left arm with his right hand, dug the heels of his boots into the ground and pushed himself backwards against some kind of boulder. A boulder at the center of the planet. Heh._

_He leaned back against it, closing his eyes, as if trying to ignore the numbness in the bottom half of his wounded arm. Damn cure materia... all in his fucking Venus Gospel which had been fucking thrown a few fucking feet away. He looked on with dull eyes as Vincent made a brave last stand, wounded to the max and without any time to summon Pheonix or use any other kind of insanely powerful materia._

_He watched as Vincent twirled his gun twice and aimed._

_Sephiroth grinned._

_The man in red was thrown back against the ground with a loud crack before any shot broke the strange silence that had befallen them._

Fuck. _Cid stared up at the one-winged angel, gritting his teeth. _Oh, fuck, I knew we were goddamn idiots to think we could take on a fucking god.... **SHIT! **_He looked towards Vincent. He was moving, but just barely enough to stagger to his knees and then fall again, his hands.... falling down to the ground in futility, about... **about an inch away from the Venus Gospel.**_

_Cid stared at Vincent's shuddering form, then towards Cloud's cold, dead body, then towards Sephiroth's one arm, which was making satanic signs of destruction in the air, about to cast a finishing spell upon them.... Then, he looked towards the spear, which seemed to glowing with its own light..._

_Slowly, involuntarily, his hands shuddering like the Tiny Bronco when the engine was busted, he brought his right hand to his left arm, and then down to his left glove._

Cid.... Are you...? NO....WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU **DOING!??! **_He yelled inwardly at himself as he gripped a loose fingertip of the brown glove, breathing so hard that his bruised ribs seemed as if they would break each time he shoved air down into his aching lungs._

_He ripped it off._

_Sometimes Shera would come into his room and wake him up at this point, with all the muttering and muffled yelling that he was letting him out during his sleep. However, she didn't this time, letting him suffer through the dream to the very end._

_He stared down at his hand. His hand. No gloves, just a hand. His eyes were narrowed as he flexed it, grimacing at the pain that rushed from the wound on the arm and watching as the white scars that criss-crossed his palm, wrist, fingers--hell, everywhere--moved in time with his muscles._

_He didn't dare to look at the back of his hand._

_Not even a dare._

_Finally, he looked up towards Vincent, who was still shuddering on the ground, staring up with narrowed eyes towards the visage of the one-winged angel, who seemed to be enjoying the prolongment of their torment._

_"Hey...." Cid whispered in a hoarse voice towards Vincent. When he didn't get a response, he jerked forward and said in a louder voice: "HEY!!! Gothman!"_

_Vincent turned his face towards Cid, his teeth grit in pain and half of his black hair hanging in strands over his face. "Wh-what?"_

_Cid nodded towards his spear as his eyes darted up towards Sephiroth, who seemed too preoccupied in planning on which attack to use to finish them off to notice any kind of counterattack that might have been in motion. Cid looked back towards Vincent, grimacing and gulping down the nervousness that seemed to be gathering at back of his throat. "Throw it to me."_

_Vincent looked from the spear to Cid and frowned. "There's no possible way you can attack. You are far too weakened to---"_

_"For the love of** Christ,** Vincent, just THROW ME THE **FUCKING SPEAR."**_

_Cid imagined how he must have looked at that moment, his goggles hanging a lopsided angle off of his forehead, his hair full of crud from the Northern Crater and sticking out all over the place, and his dirt-streaked face contorted into a grimace as his exposed hand twitched at intervals from the pain of the gash in his upper arm._

_Damn, he must have looked like hell warmed over._

_And yet, he must have sounded convincing enough for Vincent to have suddenly narrowed those freaky-ass red eyes of his and picked up the spear with that even freakier golden claw. Again, he looked from the spear to Cid and then back again, but this time, it was with a strange sort of scrutiny..._

_He looked up at Cid one last time, his pupils boring into those of his comrade. Cid would have squirmed if he hadn't been in so much pain._

Damn,_ he thought as Vincent's gaze persisted. _It's like.... those eyes... it's like... it's like he isn't human or something....

But then again, _Cid cringed from a sudden burst of pain in his arm. _Neither am I.

_Vincent suddenly stopped with the stare, looking away as he tossed the huge spear into the air with surprising ease. Cid grimaced as he raised his wounded arm, his scarred fingers outstretched towards the shimmering weapon as it fell towards him, voices screaming in his ears that he still had a chance--he could still pull out--Gothman didn't need to know---_

_But Cid had a feeling he already did._

_His bare fist closed around the Venus Gospel._

_And in the corner of his eye, as he felt a thousand daggers of ice stab through his skin and pierce through his spine, he vaguely noticed Vincent do something that he wasn't supposed to be capable of._

_He smirked._

_And the last thing he heard was a whisper that made his hair stand on end and his hands jerk in shock._

_"Buena suerte, Turk."_

_Then, darkness._

_Sweet darkness._

*~*~*

**_Thirty-Two Years Ago_**

"Frankly, Professor Gast, that thing looks less like an Ancient and more like the spawn of Satan."

Gast smiled at his assistant's dry humor, his black eyes temporarily illuminated by the bright blue glow that was emanating from the Study Cell in front of him--the ten foot tall tube of aqua-hued liquid that housed the supposed Cetra that had been recovered from the Northern Crater.

"Satan is a biblical figure." Gast continued to stare at the humanoid as he made his statement. "However, Edward, I believe you're an atheiest."

Gast never asked questions and never gave comments; he only made statements. Even if he _was_ inquiring about the status of an experiment, or telling a newcomer at the Shin-Ra mansion about how they should perform their research, he always talked in awkward, yet intelligent, informational sentences. It seemed as if he always had too much on his mind to string together his words with punctuation marks, and if the things on Gast's mind were scientific breakthroughs that would make the Shin-Ra executives happy and raise the science department's collective wages, then hell with it, everyone had better let Gast talk how he wanted to.

Incidentally, it was often joked that Gast's second-in-command, the small guy with the glasses and messy hair, never smiled. He'd gotten hired by Shin-Ra straight out of graduate school, quickly climbing up in the ranks of the science department until he was almost Gast's peer--_almost_, but not quite. His one downfall was that he was as antisocial as an isolated lab rat, preferring to perform his own experiments in his small, personal laboratory, where no one would interrupt his concentration. In fact, Professor Gast was one of the few Shin-Ra staff members who knew his first name. Everyone else referred to him as "Professor Valentine", a name which had soon been shortened to "PV", since any mention of his last name seemed to anger him immensely.

"I don't care about its religious implications," Edward sighed, shaking his head. He looked to Gast, whose eyes were still riveted on the creature. "That _thing_.... I don't care what our researchers say; it isn't one of the Cetra." He glanced at IT, and then back at Gast, straightening his normally hunched back and his voice taking on an advisory tone as he brought his left index finger up and pushed his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. "From the sparse records and drawings of Cetras that we have found--_including_ the ones at Point Maedretera--they've been described and depicted as human-like--more... aesthetically pleasing than humans, in fact, as most would say.

"But _this...."_ Edward continued, looking in disgust at the creature in front of him, curling his lip slightly, "....is simply a monstrosity!!!"

"Now, now, Edward, no need to get excited." Gast smiled slightly at his colleague's righteous speech. The being recovered from the Northern Crater indeed looked like some kind of lifeless demon as it floated in the still, blue-hued liquid of the tank, with dead, pupiless eyes that somehow burned dimly with fire--but that could have just been a trick of the light. It had some kind of hard, whitish-blue hued skin which had proved to be extremely hard to penetrate, and it was obviously a female; it had a shapely body, two breasts, and a cruel, seductive smile frozen on her thin lips. Adding to the macabre sight, the humanoid figure was being monitored by a computer terminal at the foot of the tank through wires that had been meticulously drilled through its skull and which were currently monitoring its brain activity. Even the liquid had it's own purpose; it was charged with a slight--_very_ slight--electrical current which also relayed external information about the creature to the same scientific equipment.

Gast smiled, shaking his head and finally tearing his gaze away from the humanoid being. Edward shuddered slightly at the cold, calculating look in his eyes. It was strangely chilling when Gast got that way--he took a determined, sometimes obsessive interest in certain projects, an interest which sometimes interfered with the actual objective of tests and caused Gast to become... how could you put it...?

"Well, sir...." Edward forced a stale laugh that seemed to get half-caught in his throat. Damnit, he always got soft when Gast got that look... "Just don't leave us in the dust with this one... I mean, you know how much it means to the company."

Gast returned an equally strange chuckle as he patted his assistant on the back a little more condescendingly than he should have.

"Don't worry, Edward." He sounded cool, suave, even, as he turned away and walked out of the lab. "I don't intend to."

The door shut tightly behind him.

*~*~*

**_Today_**

Cid grumbled something incoherent but undoubtedly profane as he rummaged through his attic. Shera had been bugging him to do it since last October, when he had returned from his adventures with AVALANCHE, but it hadn't been until February that Shera had employed verbal force on him.

February the fourteenth, to be exact.

"'Valentine's Day present' my ass......." Cid gave out a snort, pausing a moment to take a puff of his cigarette and dust off the top of an old trunk with his right glove. He squinted his blue eyes as he read the embossed label that was now visible.

"....Shera's Lelago Souvenirs?!?!" He shoved the trunk away and stormed farther into the bowels of the attic, kicking away the occasional turd from feral cats that had crept up into the rafters on rainy days. He continued to grumble as he trudged between even more piles of boxed knick-knacks which Shera couldn't fit in the house and yet couldn't bear to get rid of.

Cid paused again, his eyes narrowing as he bit down on the filter of his cig. "Yeah.... Why'm _I_ the one who needs to clean out the friggin' attic?!? I got, like, what--? _TWO_ damn boxes full of junk?! Most of this crap is Shera's!!!!"

But then he remembered that the _reason_ that all of Shera's memoirs were in storage was because his _own_ junk was strewn across the house--hell, even some of the cupboards in the _kitchen_ housed his lesser-used power tools. In addition, it was Valentine's Day, and therefore, he was currently a slave to his underappreciated female roommate and co-worker. (He never admitted to anyone if she was anything more.)

With another inaudible mutter, he shoved his hands into his pant pockets and stepped backwards towards the wall opposite the attic stairs. He pulled his roll of nicotine from his mouth, dubiously surveying the haphazard mess that had manifested during nearly four years of accumulation, or however long they had been living in the house, anyway. Old furniture covered by moth-eaten sheets, unused suitcases half-encased in mildew, old cardboard boxes that were rotting at their edges, and the odds and ends left by small animals who had found a comfortable place to nest were just some of the things he saw. Cid clenched his jaw, suddenly kicking himself inwardly for not tarring up the small cracks in-between the slats of of the attic walls during the free time he had spent souping up the _Tiny Bronco._

In any case, there was no way to reverse time, a fact about life which Cid decidedly hated.

"What's done is damn well done," Cid sighed, finally squashing the ember end of his cigarette between the gloved thumb and forefinger of his left hand, then dropping it to the floor and mashing it down automatically with the heel of his right boot. A funny thing about Cid was that he never took his gloves off--_never--_even if the sun was hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk and the air was so saturated with liquid that it was possible to take a bath by just lying outside. Same went for his scarf--a strange eccentricity for someone as bold-spoken as Cid.

But no matter _what_ the day, Shera never let him leave his little tobacco rolls inside the house, and had even started forcing him to sit on the porch when he _smoked_, which is why he delighted so much in doing it now. As soon as he was done, however, he turned his attention back to the task at hand and rubbed his hands together. He then took a deep breath, habitually using his left hand to flatten the blonde hair that fell over his forehead towards the back of his head, moving the hand to his neck and then scratching the hair there as he gulped, having second thoughts about the huge task ahead of him.  
  
"Hell. ....I need a cig."

Cid felt for the pack of cancer-inducing chemicals that he usually kept in the flight-goggle strap behind his ear but grumbled yet again when he realized that he had left his pack, his goggles, and his flying jacket back in the closet, leaving himself with only his boots, his green cargo pants, a white wifebeater, his scarf, and of course, his gloves.

_Pure irony,_ Cid thought in exasperation as he picked up the closest item--a crate full of unused yarn. It wasn't too heavy, and he easily lifted it up, pausing a moment before he set it down next to the wall. _I'm wearing a wifebeater while I work like a dog for Shera. Yyyup.... _**I'm** _the one who gets all full of grease and oil and dirt and all that other shit from the engines every day, and how does she treat me on Valentine's? Why, she expects me to clean the FUCKIN' ATTIC!!!!!_

At this point, he was too busy fuming to pay attention to what he was doing, and he picked up a rather old, rather corroded, rather heavy, and all around hazardous cardboard box. Cid twisted his torso towards the crate he had originally moved and predictably, the old box's bottom simply gave out.

Even more predictable was Cid's reaction.

_"SHIT!!!!!!"_ He yelped as a rectangular, greyish-hued object fell straight onto his right foot. "OOOOWWWW!!!! Aw, fuckin' HELL!!!!!" The heavy smoker commenced in hopping on his good foot, clutching his injured limb with two hands as he grit his surprisingly white teeth and scrunched up his stubble-covered face. "Sheezus CHRIST, that _hurts!!!!"_

He hopped backwards into the wall, leaning against it as the biting pain slowly began to ebb away. He opened one eye, glaring wrathfully at the object that had caused him so much unspeakable torment. Then, he opened the other eye and blinked.

It was a metal box, which now didn't look so big as it had before; it was roughly the same size as a toolbox, although any handle that it had once had had long since been broken off. Luckily, the rest of it seemed to have been better made, and its clasps and lock seemed to still be holding together after God knew how many years of neglect. Parts of it were rusted and there seemed to be some kind of label on the front....

Cid's injury was momentarily forgotten as he took a step towards the box and kneeled down, his sky-blue eyes narrowed in puzzlement. He picked it up--it _was_ pretty heavy--and stood up, using his left hand to wipe off the top layer of rust bits and dust around the clasps, lock, and finally, the label. He frowned. There was indeed some kind of lettering etched into the metal. When the wiping failed to help any more, Cid tried to gather air to blow the rest of the dust out from the letters, but found himself coughing and hacking instead, staggering under the weight of the box.

"One----aaack!---bad thing about bein' a smoker..." Cid grumbled to no one in particular, setting down the box on the ground as he rummaged through his cargo pants for a toothpick. "So many damn pockets..... Ah! Here we go...." He kneeled down once more, his gloved hands operating in a surprisingly dextrous manner with the slim sliver of wood. He began to carefully scratch out the dirt and mud and--clay?--that had embedded themselves into the metal.

"Damn strange..." Cid murmured to himself as he did the methodical work. (It was a good excuse for not cleaning up the attic, anyway.) "Almost looks as if some cretin filled 'em in on purpose...."

The letters could be read now, clearer and clearer. Cid was able to make out a P, an R.... and now an O.... a P.... He could now make out the first word--Property--and now a V, an I, an N...

Cid suddenly froze.

V, I, N, C...

He continued to work, but now he was forcing himself to do it quicker, in half-shocked, half-disbelieving strokes.

E.... N.... C, E, N...... T....

Then, the next word....

"No way...." Cid uttered in his gruff voice, his eyes widening as he uncovered the last letter.

He stared. Then he softly blew on the letters once more, just to make sure.

He was.

He stared some more.

"....The _hell.....?"_

But the name of Vincent Valentine just kept staring back at him.

Cid blinked at it for a moment, and then closed his eyes, sighing in defeat as he let himself slump back once more against the wall, allowing his hands drop to his lap and resting his elbows on his knees. He hung his head, muttering to himself.

"I hate Mondays...."

*~*~*

**database://local.shin-ra.co/sciencedepartment/research/entries/members.php  
LOGIN: edward_valentine  
PASSWORD: hojo13  
RESEARCH ID: 1286  
TITLE: Remaining Cetra ("Ancients") (Background/Hypothesis/Personal Thoughts)  
TYPE: VERBAL  
INPUT: EXTERNAL MIC  
ENTRY: Cetra. A word with so many different meanings that it is often interpreted wrongly by anyone who speaks it. Only the remaining Cetra of this planet can truly define it, and according to them, the sacred word means "warriors of the planet."**

**In this day and age, only three families strong in Cetra blood still exist, and even then, not many know of their existence. Most people assume that all of the "Ancients" died out some time ago, and that their only remains consist of the ruins at the north and south ends of Gaia. However, in reality, there are three Cetra left--or perhaps even four, if Gast's theory about the remaining Gainsborough is indeed correct. Other than that, some people still alive today can trace their lineage far back to Cetran roots, but even then, they are extremely hard to find. Not only that, but in recent times, surviving Cetra have become increasingly indifferent and ignorant to the importance of the potential which they hold within them, only choosing to learn enough about their lineage to control their power, but never about _how _it should be used. Additionally, the Cetra Weapons--legendary items, have all been either lost, destroyed, or returned to the planet, with only worsens the predicament of------Sherry?What are _you_ doing in here, you little rascal?! Candy? Well, yes, I suppose you can have some... But go ask your mother first, all right? .....She wants me to go with you to the shop and get some sunlight?..... But you weren't supposed to tell...? Well.... Er--Yes, I suppose I could.... Yes, yes, I'll be right there....**

**Comments will be continued at a later----SHERRY!!!! DON'T EVEN **_THINK_**OF TOUCHING THA-----**

**ENTRY TERMINATED**

*~*~*

**_Thirty Years Ago_**

"I _hate _Mondays..." The Turk known as Vincent Valentine grumbled under his breath. He gazed out at the miles of of green land that stretched out as far as the eye could see--land which was, at the moment, made dangerous by the threatening storm clouds that hovered overhead. Every so often, he could even hear the booming of thunder over the sound of the train he was riding on, but that only reminded him of his degrading mission. He sighed, putting his elbow on the table in front of him, resting his chin on the back of his hand and vaguely wondering why he and his "companion" had taken the train instead of just flying--it would have been faster and a much more enjoyable--but if Vincent had learned anything from being a Bluesuit, it was to never question your superiors. Not that Vincent always obeyed that rule...

Vincent sighed, his gaze lazily drifting from the window to the man that was seated across from him, who also happened to be the only other occupant in the first class carriage of the _Corel Express_. He looked a bit older than Vincent--probably thirty or so, with light, olive skin and a cleanshaven, smooth face; it was composed of thin lips, an unbroken nose, sharp, angular eyebrows, and relatively high cheekbones. All in all, a very good-looking specimen. Oh, yeah, and the S-shaped scar under his right ear helped too. He guessed that it wasn't only the man's power that made him attractive to gold-digging girls...

Another thing that Vincent had learned as a Bluesuit was how to roughly judge a person's character or vaguely predict their personality from just glancing at them. Many of the newer Turks struggled with the task, but Vincent had quickly learned the key to mastering it: You had to look at the person's hair... and then their eyes. Their hair showed the kind of lifestyle they lived and how much they cared about how they looked, or even the kind of hardships they had been through. And as for their eyes... Well, Vincent vaguely remembered that someone had once said that eyes were windows into the soul, and Vincent didn't take the saying lightly. His own blue eyes shone with a strange brilliance that made some people who spoke to him squirm in their seats. Had it not been for Vincent's coarse, rough-talking personality that made most of his comrades feel right at home, some of the Turks beneath him might have been apprehensive or even frightened of the experienced fighter.

Vincent now glanced at the man in front of him, blinking as he looked for tell-tale signs of a Shin-Ra president. However, Derrick Rufus Shin-Ra was more puzzling than most predictable, straightforward execs. First off, his blonde hair wasn't cropped or saturated with gel; quite the contrary, it had been let to grow down to his elbows, and was loosely tied behind his head with a small, blue band. Therefore, he must have been somewhat rebellious, or perhaps he was just making a fashion statement. Heh. You never could tell nowadays...

And his eyes..... They seemed icy. Cold. Dull, even. They were dark brown---but a strange sort of brown, the kind that seemed murky and lifeless until a beam of light hit it at a certain angle, and then a strange fire would flicker in it for a moment, and then die. It'd been a while since Vincent had seen eyes like that, and he didn't quite know what to make of them...

There.

A spark.

"You read much, Mr. Valentine?"

Vincent had the unsettling feeling that the man had felt his eyes on him for some time, even with half his head hidden behind his newspaper. Vincent shifted his weight, trying to sound cool and collected as he answered. "If you mean magazines and all that, then yes, Mr. President, sir, but if you're talking about books and encyclopedias and all that junk--then, no, I can't read for ja--"

"Derrick," President Shin-Ra interrupted suddenly, reaching out from behind his newspaper for a cup of tea that sat on the table.

"....Eh?" Vincent looked at his superior strangely, not quite catching the meaning of his words.

"Please," the President took a sip of tea, lowered it back onto the table, and folded his newspaper. He smiled slightly as he looked towards the Turk across from him and picked up the tea again. He closed his eyes. "Call me Derrick."

Vincent blinked. "Derrick?"

The man took a sip of his beverage and looked up. "Yes. I should hope that you would know the full name of your President, Mr. Valentine--especially when he calls you to be his personal bodyguard."

"Oh, riiiiight...." Vincent grinned, leaning back in his chair and feeling a bit more at ease as he closed his eyes and gave his suave response. "Derrick Rufus Shin-Ra the second. Son of Gerald Shin-Ra the third and older brother to Gerald Shin-Ra the fourth and Scarletta Shin-Ra, who, of course, has no hope of ever becoming the President due to her gender and the chauvenist ideals that you execs seem to be always spewing out." He looked away, cooly reaching for the pack of SAUROS cigs in his coat pocket and bringing it to his mouth. He opened his eyes and smirked at the President as he bit down on one of the cigs and pulled it out. He pocketed the rest of the pack. "Yeah, I'm smarter than I look."

"I doubt it, but I must admit, you seem to have done your homework," Vincent wasn't sure if he was supposed to take it as a compliment or an insult, but before he could respond, Derrick continued. "However, you do seem to have quite an attitude."

"Yeah, I know," Vincent brought out a lighter with the Shin-Ra, Inc. insignia on it. "I've got a pretty damn dirty mouth too when I'm not trying to impress someone with my good behavior." As if to purposely contradict what he had just said, he leaned back and brought his feet to the edge of the table, crossing them as he lit his cigarette and then put the lighter away. He suddenly looked up, pointedly taking a puff on his cig before pulling it out of his mouth and asking: "You mind if I smoke?"

Derrick waved his hand dismissively. "No, not at all--cancer doesn't bother me in the slightest. And.... you don't like authority much, do you?"

Vincent shrugged, looking away. "Nah, not really, and I really don't understand why you chose _me_ as a bodyguard. I mean, I'll do my job, but if you really wanted someone who'd take a bullet for you, you should've chosen Vegas, and if you were looking for some freaky gay affair or something, you should've gone with Earl--now, _he's_ got a track record."

Derrick looked up and nearly laughed. "Oh, no, no, I most definitely don't 'swing' that way, Mr. Valentine, and as for taking bullets... Well..." He smiled. "We'll just have to see, then, won't we?"

Vincent arched an eyebrow and then looked away, sighing as he took another smoke of his cig.

"Yeah, whatever."

*~*~*

**Today**

"Scarface El," Rude muttered, paging through the folder in his large hands. "That's the name they gave us. The guy's dangerous; he's murdered the contents of an entire bar in two minutes without leaving any kind of trace on the bodies or in the vicinity, and no one's ever lived long enough to know how he did it."

"What?" Reno snickered, leaning his elbow against the wall and pushing the back of his hand against his cheek. "Was he drunk or something?"

"No," Rude tightened his jaw at Reno's complete lack of seriousness as he answered. "But apparently, everyone else was. The only sober one was the bartender--the only survivor, too, predictably enough."

"Eh?" Elena arched an eyebrow, raising her head from her folded arms. She had been slumping forward on the kitchen table. "I thought you said no one had lived long enough to tell anything about him."

Rude glared at Elena through the pitch-black lenses of his sunglasses. He dropped his arms to his sides and then threw them up again in exasperation. "Why d'you think they'd call him '_Scarface_ El' if no one'd ever seen him, huh?!" He paused, taking a breath, and continued. "The guy was picked up by an ambulance--pulled out of the rubble of his own bar. He was able to give a vague sort of description of the guy who attacked him, but he died that same night in the hospital, so no one was really able to verify it."

"Awww, how sad," Reno mock-sighed. He immediately looked back to Rude and grinned, leaning forward and tapping the blunt side of his dinner knife into the palm of his left hand. "So, how much dough are they offering for us to take 'im out, huh?"

"Nothing," Rude answered with a voice as level as stone. He looked away, wiping sweat off the top of his bald head with his hand before continuing. "We're supposed to capture him."

Reno stopped playing with the knife arubtly, his eyes widening. "You mean... _alive?!"_

Elena looked towards Reno with an exasperated glare. "Well, duh. What else would he be? Undead or something?" She looked away and sighed before she blinked and shot up to her feet, slamming the palms of her hands down on the table. "WHAT?!?! They want us to bring some crazed, mass-murdering psycho to 'em _alive?!?!?"_

"Yes... that.... just about... sums it up," Rude answered haltingly, fiddling with the folder in his large hands until he finally scowled and threw it down on the table. "Oh, come on, guys! We were able to stand up to _AVALANCHE_ just a year ago, and now we've all turned into cowards?!"

"Weeeellll, Rude," Reno drawled sarcastically as he crossed his arms, closed his eyes, and retorted. "A year ago, Tseng hadn't gone and gotten himself impaled on a sword of unspeakable doom, all right?!"

"Don't diss him, Reno," Elena growled dangerously, glaring at her unkempt teammate.

"Hm?" Reno opened one eye and then the other, smiling slightly. "Nah, I wasn't trying to diss the late Tseng-man, Elena." The smile turned into a frown as he turned around and glared at Rude. "However, I _am_ questioning how and why Strong-'n'-Silent here suddenly turned into a full-fledged leader! I mean, c'mon, Rude, when Tseng was in charge, you barely said a damn word to anybody!!"

"Yeah, anybody except you guys, and it's still that way," Rude grumbled although he knew it was partially true. Since Tseng had... well, in, Reno's words, 'gotten himself impaled,' he had become more involved in planning and job offers and whatnot, especially after the fall of Shin-Ra. However, all that was beside the point. He scratched at an itchy spot behind his right ear. "Anyway, I don't want to force you guys to do anything that you don't want to do, although _we_ do need to get more in shape after being paid all those times to be stand-around bouncers, and---H-hey, where are you guys going?!?"

"Lunch," Elena answered simply as she and Reno walked towards the exit of the messy apartment.

"Yeah, Rude," Reno sighed, carring his nightstick over his shoulder. "Talking to a wall will do more help to get us to do the job than talking to our faces will."

"But---they're offering over twenty million gil!" Rude ran after them as they neared the door. "We could be rich in a night!"

Reno didn't look back as he began opening the door. "Yeah, and _why_ do they offer that much...?"

Elena stood, facing away from Rude as she answered the question for him. "Because they _know_ you'll never come back to claim it. They just hope to learn something from you before they find your cold, dead body lying in an old, abandoned warehouse somwhere. Simple as that."

"But, I---" Rude faltered as Reno and Elena walked through the door.

"Give it up, Rude," Elena sighed, turning the corner down the hallway.

"Yeah, we'd have to be pretty damn desperate for something to take a job as crazy as that," Reno said as he walked away and waved a hand back towards Rude. "See ya later."

Rude walked out into the hallway, blinking and staring in shock as the two ex-Turks neared the elevator that led down to the exit of the old apartment complex.

Damnit, they really _needed_ some out-in-the-field practice, even if they _didn't_ get the reward.... But there wasn't a _thing_ that Reno and Elena particularly cared about enough to put their lifes on the--

_Unless...._

Rude smirked.

"Hey, guys!" He didn't move as he called after them.

The elevator opened, and they both walked inside. Elena scowled. "We _said_ that we wouldn't do it, all right?! Jeezus..."

"If we do the job and catch the guy, I'll...." He hesitated.

"What? Spill it!" Reno taunted, even though there was no way in hell that he would do something so dange--

"I'll take off my sunglasses."

Reno and Elena both froze, standing in shock a few moments until the elevator doors began to close. Rude crossed his arms and watched with satisfaction as they nearly ran each other over while trying to get out. By the time they had finally untangled themselves from each other, they were next to Rude and staring up into his smug face.

"You serious?!" Reno leaned on his nightstick, panting.

Rude smirked. "If you mean the kind of 'serious' that you talk about whenever you promise to stop drinking after Sunday morning hangover, then no. But if you're talking about the --"

"All right, good enough for me," Elena grinned. She narrowed her eyes wickedly, walking up to Rude and bringing up her index finger. "But you'd BETTER--" she poked Rude in the chest to emphasize her point. "--keep your word and take 'em off as soon as we have the guy under lock and key, or we're going to let him go."

"You're joking." Rude looked from Elena to Reno. "Even with the reward money?!"

Reno shrugged as a grin spread across his face. "Hey, desperation causes desperate people to do desperate things, right?"

"Yeah, well, we're all desperate to get some money in our wallets, so let's get started on this damn chase," Elena turned away from Rude and shoved her hands in her pockets. "We might as well split up---I'll go check out the word on the street, Reno, you go check out all the places that the guy has hit."

"Aye, aye, capitán," Reno mock-saluted as he sauntered over to the stairs and began to descend to the lower level of the building.

"And since you seem to be better friends with the cops then either of us..." Elena turned towards Rude, her hands on her hips. "You can go to the MSPD and sift through all their recent files for clues."

"............" Rude decided it would be best to not put up a fight and sighed. "All right, all right, as long as you two don't do a half-ass job on your parts...."

"Good boy," Elena grinned, patting Rude on the shoulder before she rushed down after Reno.

Rude stood there for at least a minute, thinking ominous thoughts about chaotic piles of paper to himself before he finally walked to the elevator and leaned against the wall as he pushed the "down" button.

Maybe this wasn't such an ingenius idea after all....

*~*~*

**To be continued....**

....in a while. School starts tommorrow, but I at least I FINALLY got something up on fanfiction.net that's recently written and doesn't consist of utter crap! :)

And yeah, I know the Rude-and-sunglasses gag is overused, but I still find it strangely amusing. So sue me. And yeah, the end of this chapter did seem rather weak..... Ah, well. My apologies for possible spelling/grammar/punctuation errors--damn spell check is broken on my computer. _

omg plz r&r or yur a basterd n i wont continuu THANKYES OMG KAWAIIIIII!!!!!!!!!!!!1111oneoneone

....Seriously though, given the non-main-character nature of this fic, I'll cherish the small amount of reviews that I'm doomed to get. :) Remember, writers love input, no matter how little or how much you have to say. Comments/constructive criticism/ideas/requests to continue/flames welcome!

I be goin' now.

*POOF* 


	2. Wind and Drizzle

**Monday  
  
**by La Cidiana  
  
*~*~*  
  
**Summary: **A pilot goes a little off the edge at the mention of a certain battle, a man in black makes strange meetings in the streets of Midgar, and a few bounty hunters bite off a bit more than they can chew... *Chapter 2 is UP!!!!* _  
_  
*~*~*  
  
**A/N: **Okay. _So_ many people have asked me to continue this that even though it's been dead for EXACTLY 364 days today....  
  
I think I'll revive this baby. ^_^ I still like the plot that I came up for it, and some of the scenes just won't leave my mind.... So here I am!!! The first halves of most of the scenes were done a looong time ago, but a lot of it has been overhauled and revamped, so..... Yeah. :D Hope I didn't forget any little plot mechanics and then screw the whole thing over later. XD;;;;  
  
Even though this fic is _that_ old, I'm still extremely fond of the plot I had figured out, just because of its twistedness.  
  
So here it is..... Albeit with some errors that have inevitably been missed in my rush to post this up before it's been a year to the day....  
  
As always, try your best to enjoy. ^_^  
  
*~*`*  
  
**Chapter 2: **Wind and Drizzle  
  
*~*~*  
  
**_In memories of a woman once young...  
  
_**The girl insisted that she was seven and three-quarters, even though it was June while her birthday was in May. She was a wild little child if there ever was one; instead of pink dresses and plastic jewelry, she preferred dirty overalls and dragon action figures that would bite off the heads of Barbie dolls that her mother had given up on long ago. She was a lot like her mother, in fact--physically, at least--with her soft brown hair and equally innocent smile, and her quiet voice that only turned loud when she was playing war with the boys down the street.   
  
She had her father's eyes, though. Deep, charcoal-grey ones that shone with intense brightness beyond their years despite their dependence on glasses to see near or far.  
  
She loved her glasses, though.  
  
They made her look like her daddy.  
  
Her father was a busy man, but he never seemed to be too booked up with research and daily experiments to spend some time with her, even if it was usually down in the basement-turned-laboratory in his family's small house. There, the bold, rambunctious child would suddenly be silenced by her awe of all the miracles her father was working by the light of his desk lamps and fluorescent bulbs. Concoctions were always bubbling, and cells in petri dishes were always being cultured some way or another while he worked and hummed a tune that had been familiar to her since she was an infant. Later, much later, she would realize that those had been the best years of her life, just before the catastrophe that ruined all of it.  
  
The arrival had been pending for weeks from what she overheard from her mother and father's discussions. Whatever "pending" meant, it must have been bad for Daddy because every day he seemed more stressed---he looked just a little bit more disheveled every time he walked out of the basement, and he spent just a minute less time with her every day, and finally, it got to the point where the girl would curl up on the couch just in front of the basement door with a book and fall asleep before her father had even finished working. And she prided herself in being able to stay up past bedtime, too....  
  
Mommy didn't seem to worried. Whenever the girl tugged at her bathrobe in the morning and looked up with wide eyes to ask why Daddy was spending so much time downstairs, she would kneel down and calmly explain that her father was just getting ready for the big meeting, and once the President had come and gone through their town, he'd be back to his old self again.  
  
"The President...?" The girl whispered before breaking into a huge grin. "Like the guy who runs the SOLDIERs..... Oh, can I be a SOLDIER someday? Please, Mommy, can I?!?"  
  
"If you really want to, Cherlita," her mother pronounced the pet name with a strong Spanish accent as she ruffled her daughter's hair affectionately. She gave a sad sigh. "Though I don't think your father would approve of it...."  
  
"Whyyyyy?!" The girl whined disappointedly as she lowered her chin as pathetically as she could manage. "What's dad got against all those fighterin' people, anyway----they're so coooool!!!!"  
  
"Your uncle...." Her mother started but then trailed off. She shook her head. "I'll tell you when you're ol---"  
  
"Lu!!!!" Daddy's frustrated voice came from far down in the basement. "I need you to look at something!"  
  
"Coming, Edward!" Mommy called back in the strained-but-patient voice that she used when she knew she only had to put up with something for so long. She stood up and gave one more encouraging look towards the girl before making a beeline for the basement door.  
  
*~*~*_  
  
**Two Months Ago**_**  
  
**Cid and Vincent never spoke of the occurrences that had taken place on that day when they had gone down into the bowels of the Earth and defeated a god. It was a silent pact between men, never acknowledged, but never broken. Cloud was quiet about it as well, shaken by the fact that he had actually _died_ and had _stayed_ dead for more than thirty minutes in that "god forsaken hellhole," as he referred to it as. However, after the same amount of time spent listening to Yuffie's pleading and prodding in addition to a couple glasses of "Tifa's Special" at the Seventh 2 Heaven--(Cid grumbled that it sounded like some kind of toilet cleaner whenever he walked in)--he began divulging facts to the young ninja one chilly autumn night.  
  
Cid didn't seem to notice what Cloud was talking about at first; he was absentmindedly holding his tall one to his thin lips and sipping it, the nectar slipping down his tar-stained throat and temporarily numbing his normally irritable mood as he stared blankly at something or other on the wall next to the shelf where all the hard stuff was kept. What was it, again....? Oh, right. Tifa had told everyone the story a few nights ago. It was a plaque of recognition to some dame from _The Historical Society_, though it was too worn-out to read anything at first glance. Cloud had given it to her as a small child when her family moved into their house in Nibelheim. Cloud himself couldn't remember anything about it, which had earned him a smack over the head with Tifa's palm, but apparently, his mother found it lying around in a box somewhere; it had probably belonged to one of the previous owners of the house. Tifa had kept it all these years--even saved it in the fire that had destroyed the town--because it _had_ been a rather sweet gift from the start, and besides, it was pleasing to the eye and made the bar actually look slightly professional.  
  
_Women... _Cid grumbled to himself as he continued to stare at the gold-plated object. _Don't even know where the damn thing came from, but they keep it 'cause it looks nice, anyway.... I swear, they're so shallow about their shit sometimes... _  
  
Speaking of shallow, his tankard was almost empty. He looked down at it for a moment before giving out a mix of a grunt and a sigh and sliding it down the counter towards Tifa. He leaned backwards on his barstool, clamping his gloved hands on the edge of the counter and stretching his arms as Tifa looked towards him. "You're tryin' to cheat me outta a hangover. Gimme a damn refill."  
  
Tifa blinked a second and then laughed. "Yeah, sure thing, Cid." As she turned away towards the beer dispenser, Cid felt a strange presence make its way towards him from the darker corner of the bar. He closed his eyes and cricked his neck, still stretching.  
  
"What d'you want, Vincent?"  
  
The caped man watched the pilot's attempts at loosening muscles for a few moments before he slipped into the barstool next to Cid, farthest from the rest of the taverngoers, his long cape rustling about his legs as he did so. He looked into Cid's face with his narrowed, crimson eyes, shadowed by his red bandana and unruly black hair. "I strongly advise you to miss your hangover this time."  
  
"Eh?" Cid opened an eye incredulously and cricked his neck again before leaning forward and hunching over the counter once more. He nodded towards Tifa as she came around with his refilled tankard and slid his gloved hand into its handle before facing Vincent. "Why the hell would I want to do that?" He grinned in the manner of one about to go off the "semi-sober" edge into "tipsy." "I get to yell at all you fuckers 'cause I've got a headache the size of Emerald Weapon and no one ever stops me 'cause _everyone_ knows it's suicide to mess with Cap'n Cid when he's got a hangover. Heh-hah!" He beat his right fist against his chest once in a macho-man manner before leaning his head back and taking a needlessly long swig of sweetwater for show.  
  
Vincent stared emotionlessly as the vulgar pilot, who, without his goggles and jacket, looked very much like a nobody macho loser getting his daily dose of drunkenness at the town pub.  
  
"You can't hold your tongue when you drink," he stated simply.  
  
"Yeah?" Cid gave out a loud breath of alcohol-tainted air before he turned towards Vincent, the grin gone and replaced by a slightly annoyed frown. "So, when _do_ I hold the damn thing?"  
  
"No, Cid," Vincent's voice remained as toneless as ever as he stared him down. "I mean that when you're drunk, you'll answer anyone who asks you questions and make as many additions to conversations as your muddled mind can possibly achieve."  
  
"And I give a shit.... why?" Cid looked away, thinking detachedly to himself that it was fucking unfair how Vincent always won staring contests.  
  
"You lose your normal level of observancy as well, as dangerously low as it usually is," Vincent finally moved his eyes away from Cid's stubble-covered face towards the area of the bar where four people, including Yuffie and Tifa, were crowding around Cloud as he laughed loudly. "You haven't noticed what our little Wutaian friend has been up to..... And...." He arched an eyebrow. "She's done a surprisingly good job at finally breaking down Cloud's refusal to talk, if I do say so myself."  
  
"Huh?" Cid began to feel the effects of his careless alcohol consumption as he slowly spun his barstool in the direction of Vincent's gaze. He was met with a laughing Cloud, who looked slightly red in the face as he pounded one fist on the counter.  
  
"So then... we go down and beat Bizarro Sephiroth, right? And we think we've done the _impossible,_ right---I mean---beat the guy? Then all of a sudden, everything's crumbling down and WHAM. There he is _again_, this time as some angel with one wing.... and more powerful than ever, lemme tell you _that_ much...."  
  
As Cloud paused to take a swig of his drink, Tifa leaned forward closer, her eyes wide. Yuffie was paying close attention as well, but every so often, she'd try to steal glances at Vincent and Cid and turn away when they stared back.  
  
"You had to fight him _again?_ Tifa stared. No one had really gotten the full scope on the story, so it wasn't as if she should have already known.  
  
"Sure did!" Cloud nodded vigorously. Cid noted that the other blonde acted somewhat like a puppy when he was drunk. "He attacked us, I think....? Felt like he'd blown up the universe or something, y'know...?"  
  
"No, we _don't_ know," Yuffie sighed in annoyance. She grinned and her eyes narrowed. "So? _Then_ what happened, huh?"  
  
"Then...." Cloud blinked in confusion and smiled in embarrassment as he scratched his head. "I dunno, it gets kinda fuzzy after that.... I think I fought him again...?"  
  
"He only appeared twice, Cloud," Vincent said before Cid had a chance to warn him not to draw attention. "You must've imagined the other time when you were.... unconscious."  
  
Cid's fears were proven right when Yuffie bounded over eagerly, hopping up onto one of the barstools. "But _you_ guys remember, right? I mean, you didn't let that Sephy-roff push _you_ around, did you?!" When Cid and Vincent looked back at her blankly, she continued. "I mean, you did the WHOFF--" she slapped a hand into the air "---and the WHAMMO BING-BANG."  
  
"Yuffie, it would help if you spoke in a discernible form of English...." Vincent responded dryly. Cid remained silent, his eyes hovering far away as he sipped halfheartedly at his drink.  
  
Yuffie did a pout/frown and put her fists down on the counter as she shot the red-caped man an impudent glare. "I mean.... even though you guys are old, you can still kick ass, right?!"  
  
"I'm not old..." Cid muttered almost inaudibly, his eyes now focused on the aforementioned wall ornament. He tried to make out the date with his beer-blurred eyes. Something like thirty years ago, maybe...? Dammit, the thing had probably been around longer than _he_ had..... Or not....  
  
Yuffie seemed to have keen ears as she rolled her eyes in response to what Cid had said. "You are _too_, but that's not my point!" Unexpectedly, she jumped up on the counter and sat on her knees with her arms folded. Cid was vaguely surprised that Tifa didn't stop her nor admonish her, but maybe the broad was just as curious about the whole Sephiroth fiasco as the ninja was. "I mean, _Vincent----_!" She pointed a finger accusatorially at the pale man. "_You're_ always secretive about _everything,_ but _you!!!_" She switched over to Cid. "I dunno why _you're_ bein' so damn weird about it!"  
  
Aw, fuck.  
  
His head shrank down into his shoulders somewhat when he felt everyone's eyes turned on him.  
  
Smooth goin', Vince.  
  
Real smooth.  
  
He made a clumsy attempt at clearing his throat and instead found himself hacking on the few droplets of his drink that were clinging to his windpipe, along with Vincent trying to help by patting his back in an almost comically mechanical manner.  
  
"Ya ain't doin' no good wit' that...." Cid grumbled slightly drunkenly, waving Vincent off and trying to look towards the side of the bar that was empty. However, he was only met with Yuffie's face as she shifted her position on the counter and leaned in towards him.  
  
"So, how'd ya guys take him out, huh?" When Cid responded with only widening his eyes and leaning back to try to avoid the random bits of spittle flying out of Yuffie's excitedly chattering mouth, she grinned widely. "Ooohhh.... I'll bet you used _tons_ of materia ya haven't told me about yet 'cause yer afraid I'm gonna steal it, huh?! Like summons an' elements an' all that good stuff----"  
  
"No," Cid said in a low, ambigiously-toned voice. "We didn't use nothin'." He slowly eased off of his barstool and slumped over as he staggered for a second and then took a few steps away. He roughly pushed past Vincent, giving the hint that either he was angry with the red-caped man or was more drunk than he had previously let off. "Now leave me alone, dammit...."  
  
Tifa, albeit being just as curious as the others, pulled herself away from the red-faced Cloud for a moment to look sternly at the ninja girl. "Yuffie, I don't think they don't want to talk about it...." The stern look turned into a scowl. "And get off my counter! I don't know where your shoes've been!"  
  
"Well, I believe that---" Vincent began.  
  
"DAMN _STRAIGHT_ I don't!" Cid yelled suddenly at a decibel level that only the Highwind's captain could achieve.  
  
"But----!" Yuffie interjected, leaping off the counter and shooting Tifa a glare and a pleading look simultaneously. "Cid's just being-----stupid!!!!"  
  
"Whuzzah goin' on--confuzzed?" Cloud blinked blankly, more wasted than everyone else in the bar combined.  
  
"Just...." Tifa looked blankly to Cloud before whipping up another drink for him at lightning speeds and patting him on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it." She put her hands on her hips and began storming towards the three bar offenders, stepping out from behind the counter. "Can't you three _ever_ get along?"  
  
"_She's_ the one whithuh pie hole probellum!" Cid pointed a finger at the younger girl as he explained himself. To everyone's utter surprise, the Captain almost sounded like he was on the verge of being hysterical. "Shit! Cantcha people just takea hint an' _leavehme the fuck **alone?!?**"  
  
_Tifa seemed to forget about making the teammates cooperate and now turned her attention to the pilot instead. "Cid...." She arched a brown eyebrow. "You really should calm down...."  
  
"Calm down....? I'm _perfectly_ calm, dammit!!!!" Cid shouted, banging a fist down on one of the bar's rickety tables and causing it to topple over. In the brief, stunned silence that followed, Vincent took a wise decision and slinked off into the shadows where no one would pay attention to him.  
  
"Cid...." Tifa cleared her throat, approaching the angered captain with tentative steps. If anything, it was pretty damn stupid to get between a drunk Cid and his tantrums, but Tifa wasn't going to let anything tear apart her new bar, be it AVALANCHE member or not. "I'm not taking sides or anything, but.... Really..." She shook her head in admonition. "What's gotten _into_ you all of a sudden?"  
  
Cid paused, swaying a little before turning around and walking towards the door. He hesitated as he got to it, one gloved hand on the frame. Although his face was hidden, the tension in the rest of his body was visible.  
  
"Jus'..... nothing."  
  
And then, he walked outside into the chilly autumn air and was gone. The non-AVALANCHE members went back to their drinking and the rest stood in silence for a little while.  
  
"You think we should go after him...?" Tifa asked more herself than anyone else, a little regretful that she'd let him storm out like that.  
  
"Naahhhh," Yuffie grumbled, her shoulders hunched over as she made for one of the booths. She'd lost her enthusiasm in bugging the hell out of people for the moment. "He'll show up sooner or later.... he always does."  
  
"He left his jacket," Vincent murmured, pulling the article of clothing gingerly from where it hung on the coathanger onto his claw. He glanced at the tag for several long moments, "'Geleia Outfitters'...." and then put it back. "Interesting."  
  
Cloud burped.  
  
*~*~*  
  
Cid _didn't _show up all the next day or the day after that. The people who had been in the bar when he walked out were a little worried----besides Yuffie who didn't want to admit it and Vincent who keeping even more to himself than usual and Cloud who had been the victim of the second worst hangover in Greater-Midgar-Area history the next morning. So really, the only worried one was Tifa, but she was concerned enough to make up for the rest of them.  
  
It was all right, though, because as soon as she managed to drag Cloud out of bed and make him and herself search for the pilot, they didn't have too much trouble finding him sitting against a boulder in a grassy field near the town with a pale face and chattering teeth.  
  
"Stupid good fer nothin's," he grumbled, snatching his jacket from a bewildered Cloud without a word of thanks. The former AVALANCHE leader and his girl could only look on blankly as the pilot swore several times in tempo with the stomping of his feet and put a hand to his forehead. "Fuckin' hangover...."  
  
Apparently, Cid's had taken first place.  
  
*~*~*  
  
**_Today _  
  
**It would have almost been Christmas if people had known what it was anymore.  
  
Thick layers of soot-tinged snow lined the streets of Midgar, leaving the half-legal stores and slum-quality housing under a blanket of dirty white and charcoal gray ice. Not much had changed during the first year of "freedom" from Shin-Ra's oppressive rule. The mass of rubble at the center of Midgar that had once been the Shin-Ra HQ had slowly dwindled, of course, partially due to a couple of naive, unsuccessful cleanup attempts, and mostly due to the homeless families who rummaged through the ruins from day to day for materials to build their shacks with, and sometimes the occasional fountain pen or gold watch that could be pawned in Wall Market for less money than they were worth.  
  
If anything, it was the only truly good thing that had come from the corporation's fall, at least in the eyes of the local commerce and slum populace. "Even though we were starving, at least Shin-Ra gave us some power to _cook_ our food with," had quickly become the most repeated sentence in all of the remaining sectors. "AVALANCHE has promised us everything but given us _nothing_," had become the second.  
  
A man named Den who stood on a street corner in Wall Market was responsible for spreading some of these dissenting opinions, and even moreso the acts of protest and vandalism that had been recently breaking out in the city. Ironically enough, he was one of the more well-off of Midgar's inhabitants, able to afford the cost of printing out countless flyers and the cost of all the spray cans he incidentally distributed. What he really _did_ do for a living was anyone's guess; all anyone ever saw him do was sleep, drink, and stand on one of the corners all day, shouting to the crowds.  
  
One such of these days was going on as normally as it possibly could, some people cheering him on as they passed, and others, (usually the better-clothed ones), giving him sneers of disgust.  
  
Then he saw the man in black.  
  
He walked no different than anyone else; his clothing wasn't exceptionally bizarre. Just a worn-out but cozy looking jacket with a large hood and black pants to match. His blonde hair, a little on the dirty side, (though Den wasn't sure if that was due to pigmentation or to hygiene), was short in the back and longish in the front, combed over the right side of his face, masking nearly all of it. A strange style, to be sure, but pretty conservative compared to the way other kids were spiking it these days... In any case, the hood wasn't pulled over the man's head, so Den guessed the man in black couldn't be on _too_ much shady business as he stopped at the dissenter's stand and looked up towards the treasoner.  
  
"Hello," he said in cultured, if somewhat raspy voice.  
  
"And a hello back to you!" Den responded with a smile. He hopped down off of his bucket-turned-soapbox, all the while handing out slips of green paper to any hands that would take them while the connected brain wasn't paying attention. "Anything I can do for you?"  
  
"Not really...." The man responded, the one eye not covered by his hair roaming over the table covered with free Anti-AVALANCHE bumper stickers and posters that Den had set up. Now that he'd gotten a good earful of him, the stand-keeper guessed that the man in black was probably getting over a bad case of strep throat. "I was wondering, though...." He looked up towards Den with a surprisingly intense stare emanating from his blue eye. "You're Anti-AVALANCHE.... but are you Pro-Shin-Ra?"  
  
Den had gotten that question quite a few times before, so he was more than prepared to answer. "Well!" He laughed, grabbing another stack of flyers from the table (these were pink) as soon as the ones in his hands had run out. "I'm Pro-_Anythin'_ that doesn't involve shutting down reactors and causing hungry families to go onto the street!"  
  
"Huh," the man in black responded, raising a single black-gloved hand as if to scratch his turtleneck-covered throat but then bringing it back down again before he could complete the motion. He leaned in a little closer and said in a quieter tone. "You wouldn't happen to be friendly with any of their supporters, then, would you?"  
  
_That_ one wasn't asked as often, but it definitely wasn't new. You had to be careful around this place---near the remains of Sector 7---where most people were even more strongly Anti-Shin-Ra than they were against AVALANCHE, so Den shrugged cluelessly even as he gave a very detailed answer.  
  
"A few ex-Shin-Ra employees live in the apartment complex in Sector 5, if that's what you mean.... If you're looking for actual _followers_, though, you're gonna need to go to--"  
  
"What about archives?" The man interrupted.  
  
"Eh?" Den blinked.  
  
"Archives---old files----profiles-----that sort of thing," the man in black said quickly, almost impatiently. "Do you know if any of them survived?"  
  
Den was getting a little impatient himself; it was hard to hand out papers and have a meaningful conversation at the same time. "Listen---I dunno _nothing_ about a secret archivin' place, all right?!" Stupid book worm, taking up his time. "Now I gotta get back to work..... I've got things to do, people to convert." He turned away. "Later."  
  
"Sure," the man in black answered calmly, cooly, as he turned away. "Later."  
  
It was a few seconds of looking off somewhere else before Den simultaneously remembered something and felt a little guilty for turning away someone so soon. "Hey!" He turned back in the direction of the other. "There's this place in Sec...tor....."  
  
But he trailed off as he realized the man in black had already melded into the crowd.  
  
  
*~*~*  
  
**_Two years from today  
  
_**"He's on his way." Jergo's grin spread from the corners of his lips to his large ears as he drew one of his calloused fingers through the long, greasy brown hair that draped off of his skull in strands. He sauntered over to the dirt-layered table that his comrades were sitting at--one of the most motley bunch of crooked-teethed slum-trash that had ever come out of Midgar. Jergo fell back into his seat when he reached the congregation, feeling rather important as the men returned his grin and began dividing the sum of the bounty on their man's head--five-hundred thousand fat gil, more than any of the reasonable bounties ever commissioned and low enough to actually be a valid one.  
  
"I get at least a hundred... no, a hundred-fifty," the one called Fang declared, slamming down the blade of his dented dagger into the wooden slats of the table to emphasize his point, so to speak. "I did the borin' parts.... y'know, the research an' all that crap."  
  
"Heh-heh..." One of the more streetwise men added his two cents as he raised his head from his drink and shook it in half-disbelief. "Amazin' how those AVALANCHE bastards'll let slum kids starve by the day and still manage to give out their bank accounts to get the man who killed one of their own. Jus' amazin'."  
  
"And an ex-Shin-Ra to boot, now _that's_ the clincher!" Jergo nodded, taking a toothpick from one of his less mud-soaked pockets and commencing in cleaning out the little bits of grime and half-corroded starch that sat in the cracks between his teeth. "Imagine what they'd pay to get a man if he took that barhouse whore of theirs, eh? Heh-heh...."  
  
"Nah, they've got good reason to make a big show of gettin' this murderer fella," countered Fang. "The fish he hooked was a big one.... the kind people remember the name of, y'know? The ex-Shin-Ras tell me he was a legend back in his day.... and then there was this kind of shit about somethin' happenin' to the body..." He casually glanced around the table, checking to see that his audience was watching attentively before taking a long draught of his drink and bringing it back down to the table. "Plus, the _killer_ was one of 'em. So he's not only a murderer--he's a traitor too, and..." He glanced around again, this time letting his eyes rest on the seat at the table that had been filled until about a week earlier. "...._No one_ likes traitors."  
  
There was a creak of the greasy spoon's doors as they were pushed open, and everyone in the small, dingy establishment looked up and then away again, diverting their eyes in the struggle to stay as unsuspicious as possible while keeping the newcomer in their peripheral vision.  
  
He was tall for people around here, the ones whose sun had for many years been blocked by the giant tin can lid in the sky and who never had a chance to grow much more than five-foot seven. His long, thick black hair was ruffled with the strange wind that seemed to blow stubbornly through the bar doors from the city that shouldn't have had weather, as did the clothes he wore: black shoes too dark to make out, brown trousers faded in creases from overuse, a tan, collared shirt that had probably once been white during its lifetime, and a rather drab blue trenchcoat that reached down to his knees and covered the back of his neck. His face was as mysterious as his garb; his visage was pale with dark shadows thrown upon it by the bangs that fell over his face while his eyes were completely eclipsed by a pair of dark, black-tinted sunglasses perched upon the bridge of an unobtrusive nose. There was something majestic about him that couldn't quite be placed--something more than human about the casual way he held his head high and the slow, steady footsteps that boasted of a strange sort of grace that shouldn't have fit his stature, his feet making nary a sound as they barely touched the old wooden boards of the floor in his smooth strides.  
  
He sauntered to the counter at the front of the greasy spoon, settling down leisurely in one of the barstools. He raised one of his black-gloved hands--the left one--and lightly knocked upon the counter in front of him, attracting the attention of the greasy spoon's only employee, an old man by the name of Johnson with wrinkles and bushy grey eyebrows who had run the greasy spoon for as long as its patrons could remember. He walked over towards the newcomer a bit warily, speaking in a rather burly tone; this one looked like he could mean trouble, with the way all those bounty hunters were crowded onto his tables like sardines in a tin can. "Whaddya want?"  
  
It was uncertain if the newcomer glanced towards Johnson or not from behind his shades, but whatever the case, he smiled mysteriously, reaching down into one of his interior coat pockets with his right hand and bringing out a pack of brand-new SAUROS cigarettes. He brought them to his mouth and bit down on the end of one, pulling the rest away with the pack and pocketing them again.  
  
He turned towards Johnson, courteously brushing a handful of his dark bangs out of his face, revealing thin, black eyebrows currently helping his smile become a smirk. "Just a light, old man." He said through his clenched teeth. "You got any?"  
  
His voice was quiet, well-cultured, almost gentle, as if the newcomer hadn't spoken in a long time and was only now breaking in his vocal chords. The _tone_ of his words was completely different, however; it was reckless, and would have probably been loud had the man's voice not completely contrasted it.  
  
Johnson turned away from the newcomer, shrugging as he held a dirty plate in his hand and wiped it thoroughly with an old rag . "Lights? I dunno. Depends on if you're gonna pay for anything else."  
  
"Well, then..." The newcomer chuckled. "I don't feel like getting drunk, and since everyone here is drinking instead of eating, I'm guessing the food isn't very good..." The smile turned mysterious again. "But I've been told you've got some information I need, and I suppose that's something worth paying for..."  
  
"Heh. Sounds fair enough." This sort of thing wasn't new to Johnson, as he put down the plate and fished in one of his greasy apron pockets for a dented lighter. He brought it out, clicking the flame on. The newcomer nodded gratefully, leaning his head forward towards it and sighing in relief as a trail of smoke began to drift up towards the ceiling from his cancer stick. He leaned back as far as he could while sitting on the barstool, taking a long, much-needed drag.  
  
He blew it all out, in a smooth, fluid motion, grasping the cigarette in his hand and pulling it away from his mouth, gasping quietly once, twice, as a man in desert half-mad with thirst might do after taking a long draught of water.  
  
".....Damn," he finally said after a few moments of inhaling and exhaling the smoke-filled air, "I needed that."  
  
"Glad to help ya," Johnson returned with a rather curt smile. "Now you just need to buy somethin'. And down payment first--I don't trust any man who would look for their info in a run-down dump like this."  
  
The newcomer's voice turned a bit cynical as he faced Johnson once more. "Yeah... I figured as much." He paused for a moment, reaching into the same pocket he was keeping his smokes in and extruded a handful of rather shiny, rather heavy, rather genuine gold pieces. He deposited one of them into Johnson's waiting hand. The old bartender smiled and closed his wrinkled fingers around it. Yeah... It felt real, all right.  
  
"All right, then," Johnson let out a long, tired sigh, leaning back against the wall opposite the counter. "What d'ya need to know?"  
  
"Nothing extremely eventful..." The newcomer turned away, staring up towards something on the right wall of the greasy spoon as he took another long drag on his cig. He finally turned back towards the bartender. "That's kind of a strange place to be hanging up a license to practice medicine in this sector, don't you think?"  
  
"What? _That_ ol' thing?" Johnson laughed out loud, shaking his head as he realized that the newcomer was talking about the old, yellowed frame that hung from a nail on the wall which housed an even older, more yellow piece of official-looking parchment. "Hah! _That_ expired years ago. I dunno why I even have it up... Prob'ly 'cause it actually looks like a license to sell alcohol, eh? Hah-hah-hah..."  
  
"Hm," the newcomer gave a short laugh as his hidden eyes wandered back towards the frame, his brows furrowed in thought. "Well..." he said slowly, "how long's it been void?"  
  
"Hm, uh, let's see..." Johnson got an expression on his face similar to that of the newcomer, one of trying to remember something forgotten as he vacantly looked up towards the ceiling of the greasy spoon. "It must have been, eh... twenty years since I've practiced, I think...?"   
  
The newcomer didn't budge his gaze from its view of the frame and the document within for at least a minute as he sat like a petrified raven upon the stool, unmoving save for the noxious essence of the cigarette that hung about his head like a displaced, discolored halo. Finally, with a subtle hint of hopeless frustration lacing his voice, he turned back towards Johnson and uttered quietly: "So?"  
  
"So what?" Johnson arched an eyebrow in puzzlement not only at the word but at the sudden omnipotent presence of the man who had spoken it. He couldn't help but glance over the newcomer's shoulder at the rest of the people in the greasy spoon, just to make sure they hadn't faded into nothing.  
  
"Why'd you stop?"  
  
However, Johnson didn't have a chance to respond, because at that moment, Jergo broke the aura by uttering a low "enough with this!" as he and his crew stood up from their seats and walked quickly over to where the newcomer was seated.  
  
"Looks like I'll be keepin' this," the bartender muttered to himself as he slunk away with the single gold piece, leaving the newcomer to whirl around on his barstool in time to find himself staring down the barrels of several large guns.  
  
"Um," he said slowly, carefully, looking towards the one in the center who seemed to be the leader. As the aforementioned bounty hunter jerked his pistol twice towards the ceiling, the hunted swiftly brought both of his hands up into the air, using one to adjust his sunglasses before covering the total distance. "....Shit?"  
  
"Vincent Valentine...." Jergo said in his slick-as-oil voice, savoring every consonant and vowel as they rolled off his bitter tongue. He smirked. "Most wanted man in recent memory..... You've got alotta nerve, comin' inta one of the biggest hunter hangouts in Midgar...."  
  
At the sound of the "B.H." words, most of the other patrons who had until now just been part of the scenery seemed to rise to their feet in unison and clock their own respective firearms.  
  
"Either that, or you're pretty damn stupid," Jergo continued, the smirk disappearing momentarily as the bounty gave a blank look that soon turned into an angry one.  
  
"He never warned...." Vincent trailed off and turned his head away slightly, his eyes probably annoyed and frustrated from behind his shades. "That arrogant _ass...._ Always trying to be the hero...._"_  
  
"A _partner_, eh....?" The observant Fang deduced excitedly, turning his head towards Jergo. "They never mentioned _'at_ in the papers..... 'Ey, boss, why don't we wait for 'im...? If we bag double, we _get _double!"  
  
"We don't have any damn _time_ for any of that!" Jergo retorted, eyes still fixed on Vincent. He took a step forward, eyes narrowed. "Valentine, we're takin' ya in for murder!"  
  
"You're not even going to repeat his name?" Vincent arched an eyebrow. "Everyone does---like some clichéd movie over and over again-----you people are all so alike it's sickening as _hell!_ Like some broken record or something! I mean, you've got the impatient leader---" he nodded towards Jergo "---the eager, yet-too-ambitious-second-in-command who's gonna eventually backstab his chief just for power---" one at Fang "------and, _look!_" He motioned towards the hunters behind them, causing Jergo and his main men to take their eyes off of their capture and look back towards his subordinates for a moment. "You've even got the disposable henchmen who apparently have no family, no friends, and who don't really have anyone to give a damn if they get shot in the head!!!"  
  
They blankly looked on as a loud bang rang through the greasy spoon and one of the aforementioned men fell to the ground, a badly bleeding hole in the middle of his forehead.  
  
"And you _all_ fall for that one.... _all_ of you," Vincent sighed, shaking his head sadly as everyone whirled around to see him blow the smoke off the top of the gun that was now held in his right hand. There was a matching one in his left, too, though that one didn't appear as if it had been recently fired. "Pretty fucking pathetic...."  
  
At the same moment, the sound of a motor was heard, and everyone, including Vincent, looked in the same direction again as a motorcycle came crashing through the front door.  
  
There was a brief pause and then it was madness.  
  
Rounds of shots rang out as Jergo lunged for Vincent, but was quickly thrown off by a kick to the stomach as the hunted leaped backwards onto the counter with almost inhuman agility, using the force of the motion to propel him once more from the counter to the ceiling, where he jammed his right hand through the wood of the roof, his glove torn by splinters and a gold-plated something exposed. He swung down, changing his angle in midair to dodge an oncoming bullet and landing off-balanced, (but on two feet, miraculously), next to the vehicle that had just burst in.  
  
"_Shit!!!" _He yelled, both guns blazing madly as he regained his equilibrium and climbed quickly onto the back of the motorcycle. As soon as he had locked his boots into the metal protectors just in front of the back wheel, the tires squealed and they began to flee like bats out of hell. "Took ya long enough!"  
  
"It's my job," the driver shrugged nonchalantly, both of their coats and Vincent's hair flying in the windstream as they hit the road and gained true speed. The partner leaned forward, gloved hands gripping the wheel as he lowered his helmeted chin. "By the way, it's extremely unsafe to ride this thing facing in that direction----you should at _least_ consider wearing safety gear, you know...."  
  
"Kinda busy," Vincent grunted as he continued to shoot at the hunters. From his viewpoint, he was able to see a few of them run out and board their own modes of transportation----what exactly, he could not tell, because just then they made a sharp turn down the next street in between two high buildings. "And it looks like we're gonna have company..."  
  
"And look at yourself---calling all of _them_ clichéd," the driver somehow managed to give a faint shake of the head, "while _you're _the one completing acts of near gravatationally-impossible acrobatics just before inexplicably riding backwards on a motorcycle while shooting at them, not to mention using the two most-repeated lines in every action movie ever-written while we somehow manage to talk through all of this chaos----I'll bet those glasses of yours haven't even _moved_ through all this!"  
  
"Shut up," the passenger grumbled, regaining his badass-mutha attitude as he picked off one of the henchmen from the overfull truck that was now following them. He grinned and remembered the cigarette that was still in his mouth, realizing that it had been extinguished from all the movement. He spat it out onto the asphalt, ducking as his fire was returned and then giving back some of his own.  
  
"They're aiming for me, not you....." He muttered. He glanced backwards far enough to see where they were heading.  
  
"El!" He shouted. "Turn down that alley!"  
  
"Oh, well, _that's_ a surprise," the driver returned, although the wheels screeched once more as they turned down the narrow strip between two especially tall apartment complexes. "What are you planning, now....?"  
  
"Another incredible feat," Vincent said, this time without a grin as he carefully stood up on the speeding cycle and secured both of his guns into their holsters. "Anything I can grab onto?"  
  
"Grab-----on?" The driver sped up a tad after finding that the pavement in the alleyway was smooth enough to push sixty on. "There are a few flights of stairs coming off the side of the next buil---" as soon as he realized what his passenger was planning on doing, his voice rose from within his helmet. "_Christ_, are you _insane?!"  
  
_"Probably," Vincent answered calmly as he braced himself for a hard impact---or quick fall---as he saw the rusted metal of the apartment's fire escape pass above them. He gritted his teeth and crouched, readying his legs like coiled springs. "Wish me luck!"  
  
He leapt almost immediately, arms outstretched, and almost as suddenly, he saw one of the bars coming towards him and opened his fists....  
  
"Ungh!" He grunted, grimacing and gasping at the same time as he found himself hanging off of the railing with one very sore hand and a loudly screeching claw.  
  
"Gloves... were new..." He said with an unusually squeaky voice as he wondered how many pairs he'd gone through during the past few months.... He slowly dragged himself over the railing and gave out a few heavy breaths when he dumped himself onto the stairs of the first flight. He closed his eyes as he leaned forward and found himself instinctively pulling out one of his guns and reloading it. He raised a lid and noticed in dismay that the leather of his gloves was tattered, revealing the pale fingers of his right and the gold of his left that was exposed down to his wrist. He flexed the metallic fingers and scowled.  
  
"God _damn_ it!" He growled, setting his gun in the fingers of the unnatural appendage and holding his head with the hand of flesh. "How the _hell_ am I gonna get home _now?!_"  
  
Hopefully, Elliot would actually follow through and come _back_ for him this time....  
  
His thoughts were interrupted as he heard the motor of an approaching van and the distant yell of a "THERE 'E IS!!!!" He leapt to his feet and began running up the stairs with the speed and heightened agility of a mouse being chased by two dozen cats---though he felt more like a Jerry than a Mrs. Frisby at the moment, even with the angry buzz of a bullet flying by his ear and ricocheting off of the brick building instead. His boots pounded on the metal of the steps to the rhythm of his hard breathing---three flights, two flights---and when he heard the van stop, he knew it wasn't a good thing; on the contrary, he would have the hunter's cronies following him up the stairs now.  
  
Forget insane---this was fucking _ludicrous!!!_ He didn't even have enough time to give return fire, but luckily, the steps he was climbing on seemed to shield him from most of the shots. All he had to worry about was getting to the top... and getting off again....  
  
"_God_, he's a fast one!" He heard from below him. Just a couple more stairways.... just a couple...  
  
"He was one of those AVALANCHE people---he managed to _kill_ one of those AVALANCHE people, so whaddya expect?!"  
  
Vincent suddenly stumbled forward, swearing under his breath before staggering back up and making it to the rooftop. The fall hadn't hindered his progress much, but it had lost him enough time that he now felt as if his followers were snapping at his heels. He ran to the opposite side of the roof, looking over the edge and quietly berating himself for not realizing fully that everything that comes up must go down....  
  
"VALENTINE!!!!" He heard a loud shout from behind him. He whirled around, gun cocked, but he wasn't the lucky one this time as a shot exploded next to his claw, catching him off guard and sending his gun into the air----and over the rooftop railing. He reached under his coat with his flesh hand, but before he could get a good grip on his matching firearm, he found himself smiling weakly with his arms raised. No _way_ was he messing with bounty hunter calvary that had guns _that_ size....  
  
The leader of the bunch was breathing hard, a glock raised in one hand while he kept the other on his knee. He kept his eyes on Vincent, albeit blearily and heaved in-between his words. "Are.... are ya blind.... or just plain stupid?!" A gasp. "We gotcha surrounded!"  
  
Vincent was already making mental calculations, trying to figure out an escape plan.... he took a few steps in reverse so that his back was touching the railing. He was glad that most of Midgar's plates had been taken down-----this would be harder if it was dark......  
  
".....Dead or.... alive..... the bounty's..... still supposed to.... stand!" The hunter winced at a pain in his abdomen as he watched his meal ticket put his hands higher in the air.  
  
"Well," the man replied slowly, looking towards the evening sky with eyes that must have been horribly distant behind those shades. A sad look crossed his face. "You're outta luck.... I'm neither."  
  
The hunters could only look on in disbelief as the wind howled softly and Vincent Valentine fell backwards from the top of the building with arms outstretched and a smile on his face.  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. The Cold Creeps In

**Monday**  
  
by La Cidiana  
  
*~*~*  
  
**Summary: **In the past: Photographs and family feuds. In the present: Coffee and file cabinets. In the future: Corporate scandal and scars on skin. What's to become of all of this? *Chapter 3!*  
  
*~*~*  
  
**A/N: **Whooo keeeyyy, here we go with the most boring chapter yet! Seriously, dudes, it's just people sitting around... like.... talking.   
  
Example 1: Blah blah yaddah blah yaddah blah FORWARDING THE PLOOOTTTT blah blah yaddah.  
  
Example 2: Yaddah yaddah blah WHAT PLOT? blah yaddah blah. Scalawag.  
  
Ahem.  
  
In any case, at least I'm working on this. XD Even if it takes me, like, two months and a half to get ONE chapter up. o_O;; But hey, at least they're fairly _beefy_ chapters.... Right? ....RIGHT?!  
  
Was lazy with rereading, as usual. So the usual pology for errors I missed. But still try to enjoy. ;3  
  
*~*~*  
  
**3: **The Cold Creeps In  
_  
_*~*~*  
  
**_Thirty years ago  
  
_**Vincent almost felt a pang of remorse as he and Derrick departed from their train in the Nibelheim station and found themselves standing on the wooden slats of the station that served as the main hub of transportation in the picturesque little mountain town. However, it faded away all too soon into a different kind of regret---this one more selfish than the other.  
  
Don't suppose they have many.... _fun _places round here, huh? He sighed more to himself than anyone, narrowing his eyes and bending down to snatch up his single suitcase from the ground.  
  
No, not to my knowledge, was Derrick's unexpected response. When Vincent blinked towards him, the President smiled with a hint of surprising warmness. And don't worry about your luggage... The station attendants will be taking care of the load, and I believe that we have business to attend to as is.... Ah-hah.  
  
Derrick flashed his teeth towards something far off, and Vincent looked in the same direction, dropping his bag and a sick feeling immediately engulfing his stomach at the sight of a group of far-too-obvious scientists, sticking out like sore thumbs with their stark-white labcoats.  
  
Professor Gast! Derrick exclaimed genially, walking towards the group with self-assuredness in his stride as the researchers picked up their own pace. One of them, a man with short black hair at the front of the group, waved back in greeting.  
  
_You knew what you were getting into when you looked at the papers... _Vincent berated himself. _It was even part of the reason that you **took** the damn job!  
  
_Vincent hung back, trying not to make any eye-contact with any of the researchers as Derrick and Gast exchanged meaningless formalities and began speaking some gibberish about money and molar mass-----that is, the normal scientific jargon of researchers who double as business men with experience at weaving through bureaucracy. After a while of not being rooted out as by one of the scientists, he found himself regaining his usual cocksure attitude and glancing over the makers of Shin-Ra Inc.'s so-called   
  
.....Not too impressive, if he did say so himself; besides Gast, there were two other men with brown hair; a mousy, freckle-faced one, and a dark-skinned one with a crooked nose. His eyes wandered over to the next person, and suddenly, he froze. _A woman?_  
  
A very fine woman, indeed. He blinked at her a few times as she stood serenely, a clipboard carried in her hands as she watched Derrick and Gast's conversation intently. His eyes followed the curves of her body, or at least the ones he could make out underneath her white coat (_I should try to get it off sometime..._) to her face. Straight, brown hair tied back into a long ponytail, full lips, full eyelashes; romantically Spanish features. Two things didn't fit in with the exotic look, however: her light skin, and her green eyes. They shone brightly from behind her glasses, so intensely, that for a moment, Vincent thought....  
  
She paused, seeming to sense his stare on her, and she glanced towards him, causing him to look away and whistle in an all too casual manner, hands in his pants pockets. She smiled thinly and looked back to the President and scientist, who seemed to be finishing up the exchange of words. (_Playing hard-to-get, huh?_) Vincent moved his eyes towards them as well.  
  
Well, we certainly do hope you enjoy your stay.... Gast said, shaking hands with the man again.  
  
Oh, I'm sure I will, Derrick returned. He smiled, nodding towards Vincent. Not sure about this fellow, however. What do you think, Valentine?  
  
Oh, I think I could get _used_ to this place, he said, about to turn towards the woman and give her a suggestive wink when he realized that the whole group was staring at him strangely, most prominent being the lady in question. Gast's look was more one of curiosity, and he walked towards the Turk. _Vincent_ Valentine?  
  
Vincent answered, feeling a bit self-conscious at the strange greeting. He shook Gast's hand tentatively as it was offered to him, and the scientist smiled a bit eerily. Edward's brother. I've heard stories----  
  
Before Vincent could register the awkward silence, a boy of about sixteen years with red hair and thick glasses burst onto the platform and ran towards them. Gast----Professor Gast-------Mr. President, sir! He bowed slightly, panting from the weight of what seemed to be a very heavy bag underneath his left arm.  
  
What do you want, Ricky? Gast asked with slight exasperation, forgetting about Vincent for the moment. The Bluesuit took the opportunity to slink back a couple of steps and rub his hand where Gast had shaken it.  
  
Please, Professor----just a photo, that's all, the boy pleaded, for my Current Event report, y'see?  
  
Ricky, I don't think now is the opportune moment to---  
  
Oh, let the boy be, Professor, Derrick smiled, garnering a delighted grin from the kid, who set his bag down and began rummaging through it for photo equipment. Me you, and Vincent, here---come on, now, let's stand together.  
  
Vincent found himself pulled into the group of three, smiling nervously as the kid set up the equipment at lightning speeds. Finally, he seemed to finish, and did a double-take on the three, shouting in surprise. Wow, a Turk! A real live Turk! That's incredible!  
  
_Good God,_ Vincent gagged inwardly. _He reminds me of Eddie. A real nerd. Cept he hated Bluesuits...  
  
_Yeah, yeah, kid, I'll be giving out autographs at five, he said out loud, cleaning out his ear with a pinky.  
  
The kid exclaimed, causing him to drop one of the pieces and snatch it up again, in an awkward manner.  
  
Just take the picture, Ricky, Gast said. His photo smile was waning.  
  
he said, suddenly, ducking into his refuge behind the camera lens. Okay, look lively, everyone!  
  
They all smiled more-or-less as best they could, and there was a blinding flash followed by the roll of the film.  
  
Yeah, awesome, the kid grinned. His smile faded when he realized the glare that Gast was giving him, and began packing up his things.  
  
Well, then, Gast strained a laugh and clasped his hands together as he turned towards the other two. Shall I show you to the inn?'  
  
Vincent glanced around for the woman, but she had dispersed with the other two scientists.  
  
_Whatever,_ he sighed, feeling for his coat pocket to reassure himself that his cigarettes were still there. _I'll have a smoke when the doctors are gone._  
  
*~*~*  
  
**_Today_**_  
_  
Rude didn't think he'd ever seen as many files as this in any one place in his entire life. Cabinet after cabinet after cabinet of pointless documentation and forms...  
  
And still, no luck.  
  
He'd forgotten the real gist of what he'd been doing, anyway, especially with the interruptions now and then wherein he would find the especially juicy file of a Shin-Ra executive and sift through the papers, chuckling now and then at a letter revoking a raise or traffic violation tickets. (He'd never known Heidegger had done so much drunk driving! And gotten away with it, too...)  
  
But after hours of fruitless searching through manilla-colored folders and the papers within, this whole thing was proving to be rather... stupid. Twenty million.... Yeah, right. He'd be lucky to get out of this storage room without going blind. All this stuff was old, anyway; the rest had gone kaboom along with the old HQ. He briefly grumbled something about the stupid makeshift non-Shin-Ra police forces sending him to some godforsaken basement instead of actually letting him go through their current stuff... but hey. He couldn't afford to make a stink about it, seeing as they _were_ the ones offering that potentially-bankrupting reward...  
  
His red-rimmed eyes (he'd given up on his shades hours ago in favor of actually being able to see) wandered over towards a small drawer in the vicinity of where he had been searching earlier. It was locked, but the thing was corroded and rusted up and falling off of the drawer's handle as it was. Curious as to whether there would be useful information in there or not, he walked over and, giving a furtive glance of the eyes left and right, grabbed it and forced it open. The ensuing flurry of dust was enough to make him wish he hadn't.  
  
He hacked, flailing his arms in an attempt to ward off the onslaught. When it finally did subside, he found that his his eyes were watering and was about to close the drawer back into its original position (this wasn't worth the pain...) when he caught a glimpse of the name on the file at the top of the pile within.  
  
He coughed, grabbing for the file and realizing it was thicker than the others he had come across. Funny, he thought he'd already been through the late President's personal information earlier in the hour...  
  
In any case, it was still too damn dusty to read anything under fourteen font under these kinds of conditions, so Rude grabbed the file and slinked out as best he could, slipping on his shades as soon as he had reached the door at the top of the basement stairs. After a moment of thought, he decided to hide the folder under his jacket as well. Who knew what kind of dirt could be in there...  
  
The blonde girl at the receptionist's desk looked up blankly as he walked by. She swallowed the piece of doughnut she'd been munching on. Done already?  
  
After three hours, I should hope so, Rude shot her a glare that seemed to translate from behind his sunglasses.  
  
she murmured meekly, blinking once before pointedly focusing back on the computer in front of her and beginning to type again.  
  
The Ex-Turk turned back towards the glass-paneled door of the exit just in time to bump into some black-clothed blob's shoulder. He glared and rubbed his eyes. He still couldn't quite see clearly because of that damn dust cloud....  
  
he muttered, pushing his way out the door and cursing whatever drunken night in which Reno had convinced him that bounty hunting was a manifestation of all that was drop-dead badass. He could faintly hear the person give out a polite, Oh, I'm quite fine, from inside and he wondered vaguely at the fact that some people in Midgar were still courteous.  
  
*~*~*  
  
**_In the memories of a woman once young...  
  
_**She had never seen her daddy so angry, ever. She hid out in her room that first day, though her fearful curiosity caused her to move from the safety of her bed to the air duct near the door and put her ear to the grate so that she could hear what her parents were talking about downstairs. She was almost sorry she did, though; some illusions about her father's innate purity were shattered----mostly the fact that he never cursed.  
  
God... that damn _bastard!!!  
  
_Shhhh, it's only as long as the President decides to stay here, mi amor.  
  
Believe you me, it's going to be a _while. _The President never takes this much trouble to go on a _day_ trip...  
  
  
  
WHY does he always have to find his way into my life, **_WHY_**_?!  
  
_He _is_ your brother...  
  
And that's why he should stay the **_hell_** away from me.  
  
Edward, calm down, _please!_ Your _daughter_ is upstairs!  
  
A small feeling of satisfaction from the girl.  
  
And _her._ I don't want him _near_ **_her_**.  
  
Don't you think you're overreacting just a tiny bit?  
  
The sound of a fist slamming down on the top of the kitchen table. I am _not_ overreacting in the slightest----do you know what that man----that _family_-----has _done_ to me?! That hierarchy of birth and blood and all the other pretentious pieces of pompous shit that they threw at me....!!!  
  
But was _that_ your brother's fault?  
  
_He_ was shaped by them, _he_ followed their rules, _he_ was the son a bitch who drove me out of that house----why don't you ask **_him_**_?!_  
  
I intend to do just that.  
  
  
  
With all the ranting you do about that family of yours, I'm interested in going and seeing just how horrible these people---or at least one of them----is.  
  
No, no, **_no_**, Lucrecia, I _told_ you to stay home with me, away from their arrival-----I----I am _not_ allowing you to-----  
  
To what? Last time I checked, I was free to talk to whoever I wanted to.  
  
  
  
Edward, sometimes..... I don't know, but you make absolutely _no_ sense----_NADA._ You need some rest....  
  
I need nothing of the sor---  
  
The girl gave a little hiccup of terror as she heard the thump of her mother's footsteps on the stairs, and she ran to her bed, climbing into it and snuggling under the covers as quickly as she could, hugging her teddy bear close to her chest and closing her eyes in the pretense of sleep. She heard her bedroom door open a crack---her mother peeking in to check whether or not her little _Cherlita_ had heard the ruckus downstairs. Apparently, her daughter's guise had been convincing, because a second later, the door was closed again and Cherry was able to open her eyes in the darkness.  
  
She breathed out a sigh of relief and proceeded to wonder about this uncle she was never supposed to meet. What a mystery, even moreso than Daddy's recent project down at the mansion! And dangerous, too....  
  
A wild, risky idea formulated itself in her childish mind. She'd go seek out this _uncle_ the next day.... Yeah, when Daddy was downstairs working and Mommy was off at her weekly meeting with the history people... Yeah, yeah! They always knew how she went out and played with the boys, so she wouldn't be missed, and she knew where the inn was---right nearby, down the street---not to mention her uncle's name: Vincent Valentine. it was a cool name, cooler than most, and he was the President's---the _President's!!!_----bodyguard. You had to be at least slightly awesome to be _anyone's_ bodyguard....  
  
Thoughts such as these found their way into her mind as she drifted off to sleep, smiling quietly.  
  
*~*~*  
  
**_Two years from today  
  
_**Sightings in the second, third, and fourth sectors----bounty hunters and vigilantes alike going missing by the day... A brown-haired man with worried eyes looked up from a pile of papers held in his nervous fingers. His name was Fleming. This whole venture seems to be getting out of hand...  
  
I know, a man with shoulder-length blonde hair said coldly, a faint frown of contempt on his well-hewn features. His hands were clasped together behind his back as he looked through a large window at a high-rise view of the dark-blue sky above Midgar. He wore a grey suit, with classy white dress gloves over his fingertips and gold, diamond-shaped cufflinks.  
  
Sir, could I suggest that we take another form of--  
  
the blonde cut him off, turning around and raising his chin, glaring down at his subordinate. Ice emanated from his dark eyes. There is no way that I am allowing that man to continue at large----not while a true Shin-Ra is on the throne will scum like that race through the sewers.  
  
At least he hasn't gotten too far on his exploits... Fleming offered optimistically. If he had, he wouldn't keep coming back into the city...  
  
Who knows? The blonde answered, turning back towards the window in frustration. Who knows how close he is to the truth so long as we can't even _find_ him? We don't even know the location of his base of operation....  
  
Logistics in our information tell us that it must be connected to the old subway...  
  
the blonde murmured to himself. His voice was quiet. All of this--worthless....  
  
Mr. President, sir! A man in the red uniform of a third-class Neo-SOLDIER burst through the double-doors of the office, breathless. He stood for a moment, taking in air harshly and deeply before the blonde spoke up in annoyance.  
  
  
  
the Neo-SOLDIER tried his best to stand at attention without collapsing. We have a survivor.   
  
Both of the other men in the room stood straight up, though Fleming was the only one with wide eyes.  
  
Where is he? The President asked in a cool, calm voice.  
  
*~*~*  
  
The Neo-Shin-Ra's hospital wasn't too huge an affair, as most areas of it were under serious construction; it looked more like a clinic than an emergency wing at this point. Although there were sickly Neo-Shin-Ra employees scattered along the hallways, there were only three people actually being kept in beds: A worker whose head had been injured by a fall from one of the other Neo-Shin-Ra centers that were being constructed, a pregnant woman being held in until complications with her fetus were cleared up, and a man whose body seemed to be hooked up to nearly every kind of life support machine that the hospital had on its hands. The man himself was barely visible, a collection of bruises and blood underneath bandages and bedsheets, and one clouded eye and a half-opened mouth peeking out from beneath the white and red.  
  
As soon as the Neo-SOLDIER stopped at the bed in which the pitiful thing was lying, he turned on his heel and saluted. (He seemed to have gotten over his bout of lung troubles.) The President nodded curtly and the uniformed man left, leaving the blonde alone with his nervous companion as a doctor approached them. She bowed her head respectfully and then began to speak.  
  
He was brought in an hour and a half ago, she said in a professional tone lacking any sort of sympathetic feeling for patients that hospital doctors were expected to have. Bullet wound in his shoulder--went clear through, fortunately--broken ribs and fractures in his skull that correspond to a large fall, and gashes down his chest and arms. Both of those are broken, too---the arms, I mean.  
  
The President nodded. The man that acted as his shadow only stood, wringing his hands intermittently.  
  
On another note, we found some fragments like this-- she extracted a small shard of metal from her coat's pocket and deposited it into the President's waiting hand --in some of the deeper wounds...  
  
the blonde murmured, turning the piece in his gloved fingers.  
  
A harder alloy of it, yes, the doctor nodded. Our scientists are working on its exact composition right now. She paused, glancing towards the still figure in the bed. He called himself... Fang, I think. Kept ranting on about some sort of monster. Oh... She seemed to remember something and padded over to the bedside table assigned to this particular cot. The top drawer was opened and, from it, she procured a medium-sized firearm--(looked like a custom job, probably with illegal parts and mechanisms)--which she held gingerly by the stock and also gave to her superior. The President took it and checked it over with his quick, cold eyes.  
  
There are scratches along the trigger--and indentations, he said, more to himself than any of those around him. Seems like something he'd carry, and a little heavy... With a narrowing of the eyes and the flick of a half-hidden switch near the end of the gun's nose, a thin blade about four inches long shot out from the tip of the barrel and the blonde smiled Ah, of course, the symbolic last defense.... He held the gun by the handle with his right hand and swung it in a nonchalant, yet utterly professional manner. The doctor and Fleming backed away a good two feet. Good use of extra weight---balanced, too---simply ingenious, the stuff they come up with nowadays...  
  
The brown-haired man blinked several times, taking in all this information before giving out a tired sigh and sinking into a hard chair near the bed. As a second thought, he dug a hand into his pants' back pocket and brought out a pack of cigarettes, lighting one up and sucking up the smoke. The doctor didn't protest.  
  
Without so much as a word, the President leisurely strode to Fang's bedside and leaned over the man with his piercing glare. He had to continue staring for a little while before the single working eye of the patient slid over lethargically to meet his.  
  
Who did this to you? The President asked quietly, directly.  
  
The shell of a man tried to blink, but only succeeded in making his eyes water. He let loose a raspy, confused string of haphazard words.  
  
What... _it_ did this... I told em--I told em it wan't a good idea, no it en't---but----but we caught it. We cornered it---the other guy busted in....  
  
'Other guy?' The President echoed with faint curiosity. From the chair, Fleming raised his chin.  
  
Fang continued as if he hadn't even heard him. Yeah----yeah, we was so sorry we didn't know it when it fell off the building and we went down. Wings! Wings and claws and teeth and blood! Fang's eye was wide now, his body tense and his single pupil dilated in the panic of a not-so-distant memory. Jergo--he went forward an' went down first----fuck _him!_---I tried to run but it _caught_ me, caught me an' tore me to pieces an' threw me on the ground---I crawled away---but Jesus! Fuckin' _Jesus!  
  
_Foam had begun to course from Fang's mouth, and the President gladly stepped back and allowed the nurse to come forward, and murmuring a few calculating words to herself, wipe the stuff from the side of Fang's pale lips. The President took a step forward as soon as the doctor had gotten herself out of the way, and he watched with his scrutinous eyes as the bounty hunter's broken body heaved with deep breaths. He waited until the panic attack had subsided, but made no attempt at being sympathetic when he asked his next question.  
  
The other man. He paused. Who was he?  
  
Fang was quiet for a moment, contemplating a response. His teeth came together in a lopsided grin.  
  
I brought the gun like ya people asked, he croaked. That's five thou right ere. How much more you offerin' fer the info?  
  
Funny you should mention this thing, the President smiled, holding the gun up and slowly inching the blade jutting out from it closer to where Fang's neck would be underneath all of the bandages. As I seem to be controlling where it goes, and right now, it's heading straight for something called your He pulled it back a bit as soon as he noticed Fang's breaths quicken. Unless, of course, you choose to cooperate with us.  
  
The bedridden man was silent a moment, thinking. He had obviously decided to go with the alternative choice that the President had given him. I didn't get a good lookit him--not really wit' helmet n' all, some kinda getaway driver.... On a motorcycle... yeah... One _fast_ shit. After _it_ attacked---I was lyin' down, the monster'd disappeared--but I saw the same guy run up to the target---_it._ Throw off his helmet. Blonde hair, face all white n' banged up, like some kinda accident he'd been in... He helped _it_ away... He looked up to the President with a pensive, distant eye. Come to think of it... He... he looked kinda like you.  
  
For the first time during the conversation, the President showed an emotion other than cold callousness. There was a flash of fear in his eyes as he stood up, as if visions of destruction were dancing before him. It only lasted for a moment, however, and then the blonde had narrowed his eyes and was walking away. His associate stumbled to his feet; there was fury in his boss's steps.  
  
I want his death certificate on my desk within the hour, he growled to the doctor, saying it low enough that his victim couldn't hear him. She only nodded and padded away to find some of the cleaner toxins they had in storage. Fleming stood in shock, watching his superior's slow pace down the hallway and the hollow sound of footsteps that accompanied it.  
  
The brown-haired man exclaimed. He answered your question...  
  
We can't let him live to tell the world that AVALANCHE isn't the only one behind the Kill Valentine' plot, was his cold response.  
  
But that's not it---is it? Fleming persisted, jogging to try to catch up to the President. We _knew_ he must have had a partner-in-arms all this time, just no one ever came back to tell us!  
  
Silence.  
  
Sir----Mr. President---------President Rufus, sir!  
  
He finally turned around with his pale blue eyes showing the strange, dull hue that no one could never quite figure out, his face as calm as a deep ocean's surface on a bright summer afternoon.  
  
I'd tell you, he pursed his lips. But then I'd have to kill you.  
  
The President gave out a short chuckle and continued on his way. Come, Fleming. We have much to add to our investigation.  
  
The subordinate tried to laugh, but found that his voice was caught in his throat.  
  
*~*~*  
  
**_Today  
  
_**You burned the coffee.  
  
Since when do I drink coffee?  
  
Since you're too lazy to go down to the store and get some more tea.  
  
Yeah.... Yeah, whatever....  
  
H-HEY! Get up!  
  
Cid winced as Shera pulled him by the ear and he was forced to go along with her as she pulled him out of bed. Ow-ow-ow! Fuck! Stop that!  
  
She gave a sort of hrumphing noise as she let go and he scrambled to get something on over his pajamas; namely, a worn-out bathrobe.  
  
Oh, and there's a letter for you. From Midgar... Shera's voice faded as she walked away.  
  
Probably another anti-AV bastard who _mysteriously_ got ahold of my address, Cid grumbled, scratching his head momentarily as he cursed the day Yuffie had discovered how profitable playing both sides could be. He followed her and headed into their small kitchen. Damn, it _reeks_ in here...  
  
Probably because you left it on since last night... Shera muttered. That, and you've never used that thing before.  
  
Cid stared at it blankly, a confused look in his eyes. Why'd I ever buy it in the first place?  
  
You didn't, Shera sighed, grabbing a plate of toast and a glass of orange juice and making her way towards their living area. Farder bought it for you last Christmas, remember?  
  
Oh, yeah... Cid's expression turned into one of annoyance. He's been tryin' every trick in the book to get me to give him back his damn spear..... He tensed for a moment, as if remembered the duties he'd carried out with the thing, before sighing and focusing his attention back on the coffee maker. No way he's gettin' it back.... Poor bastard's senile; can't handle a dangerous thing like _that_.  
  
You're incorrigible, Shera stated from the other room. And please turn off that thing, if it isn't too much of a problem...  
  
Oh, right, that. He raised his hand to flick off the switch. I needed something to keep me up.... He completed the motion and the coffee maker's light went out.   
  
Shera poked her head in from their living area, adjusting her glasses as she chewed on a piece of toast. What's wrong?  
  
Cid murmured, but obviously, something _was_ awry as his brow furrowed and his pace quickened. He headed towards the door to the inside of the garage, swinging in through it and clicking on the light; his figure blocked Shera's view of the interior of the room, even though she tried to peer in from another angle.  
  
Cid grumbled, turning away from the door as he closed it behind him. He leaned back against it, one hand over his face. He dropped it and looked towards his vaguely-declared girlfriend with weary eyes. I need to go.  
  
Shera answered. She wasn't surprised at the sudden statement; Cid was prone to making spontaneous, unpredictable decisions, especially when it came to traveling----he _was_ a pilot. Where to?  
  
To visit a friend, he grunted in response, ducking into their room and closing the door. The sound of rustling clothes and the opening and closing of drawers could be heard.  
  
Shera called back, picking up her plate (now empty) and carrying it, along with her glass, to the sink and rinsing them off.  
  
You don't know him, she heard his muffled reply as his heavy footsteps thudded around. He's a weird guy, kinda cold.... Goth. He paused. Part of the Crackpot team. The one none of the papers talk about---he hides away.... He knew most of the so-called news sources downplayed AVALANCHE and the recognition they deserved for their heroic actions, anyway. This was mostly due to the fact that the editorial pages loved bitching about the current quality of life in Midgar, and when AVALANCHE members _were_ mentioned, it was usually in an attempt to villainize them.  
  
Shera responded, pausing. She'd heard a lot about the AVALANCHE members, but Cid had never really gone into detail about the whole fiasco of saving the world, although he sure went out of town a lot for weird, secretive meetings and get-togethers. She preferred staying home, (and whenever she became curious to go, Cid talked her into a tactic called not fraternizing with wackos who were generally fucked-up in the head. Shera would respond, Oh, and what about _you?_ You're one of them! Wherein he would grumble something and slink away.) This was why the only members she'd met had been Cloud, Tifa, Nanaki, and Cid himself. Shera never asked too many questions about what had occurred while the group had been active, which got the two of them into much less arguments about _that_ and more into arguments about petty things that weren't as serious as they had been in the past.  
  
Cid walked out of the bedroom and stood in the kitchen doorway. How do I look? He asked half-seriously.  
  
Like usual, Shera yawned, and she walked past her familiarly-garbed Captain, wiping the plate and putting it up on the shelf. I guess you'll be taking the plane, then...?  
  
Unless you want me to walk twenty miles in a day..... yes. He responded dryly, walking back into the garage. He came out carrying a heavy-looking cardboard box. I'll be back in a few hours... or more... He paused as he got to the entrance of the house, in the middle of the motion of kicking open the screen door. Make that pot roast you bought for tonight..... I'll.... he nodded as he walked out into the yard. I'll go get some tea while I'm at it.  
  
Sounds good, Shera responded, back at the sink and rinsing off the dishes used during the previous night's Valentine's Day dinner. (It hadn't been especially romantic, mostly due to Cid's lack of anything out of the ordinary to say.) She heard the faint creaking of the plane being wheeled onto the street, and then if the engine being revved up and taxiing down to the small runway a hundred meters down from where the people lived in town.  
  
Suddenly, she remembered something and walked quickly to the coffee table, where the morning's mail had been left. Cid's letter was still there, unopened, and she thought for a moment that maybe he would want it before he left. Then, she realized that that was ridiculous; it probably _was_ more idiotic hatemail, nothing worth racing after him to place into his hand.  
  
With a sigh, she paced back to the kitchen and continued with her chores before something else occurred to her and she took off her apron.  
  
_I never **did** check to see if he finished cleaning up there...._ She thought to herself as she headed for the attic trapdoor down the hall.  
  
*~*~*  
  
**_Two years from today_**  
  
Vincent opened his eyes slowly and painfully, his vision bleary as an unbearably bright light streamed in from above him. He tried to raise a hand to block out the light, but found that he was tied down somehow.  
  
Don't move, he head Elliot's voice through grit teeth. I'm working on something.  
  
Vincent was about to ask what exactly it _was_ that Elliot was working on when a series of sharp, searing pains rushed from his limbs to his head, the most prominent of which was from the upper part of his right arm. He took a sharp intake of breath, but when his chest involuntarily jerked with the movement, he found he was belted down to the top of a table.  
  
Calm down! Elliot hissed. The pain subsided for a moment and then came back again as soon as Vincent was still. Not _my_ fault you decided to take on half an army....  
  
Half an...? Vincent trailed off slowly, grimacing as he felt Elliot's knife dig deeper into his flesh. Flashes of guns pointed at him from the top of a building and the sight of a smoggy sky blowing dry air on his face bubbled up through his memory, and then a gap of blackness, just before seeing Elliot's face biting its lip in thought for a brief moment and losing consciousness again.  
  
he said dully, realizing all too easily what had happened. His face twitched one last time as he felt a painful tug and Elliot breathed a sigh of relief as the pain finally began to fade away---for good, this time. He opened his eyes and beheld his friend's blurry face, smiling in a vaguely smug manner as he leaned over the table and dangled a bloody bullet in front of Vincent's eyes with a pair of tweezers.  
  
_This_ is what happens when you try to take care of things by yourself, the makeshift surgeon said, admonishingly shaking the tweezers in rhythm with his words. Jumping onto the stairwell of a building to _distract_ them.... what in God's name were _you_ thinking?  
  
Hey, I took em out, didn't I?! Vincent scowled irritably, trying to raise his arms but finding that they were still bound. The pain, however, was all but gone; his regenerative body must have sealed up the wounds already.  
  
You're just lucky I serve as a private doctor as well as a partner, Elliot's smile turned into an annoyed expression as he turned away and began gathering up his medical instruments. (God knew where he'd acquired them from...) After dumping them all in a large bowl of water and wiping his hands on a bloody dishtowel, he turned back and began to undo the straps, which were really only a few oversized belts tied over the table and buckled below it. Vincent growled, sitting up as soon as he was able to. He rubbed his bare arm with the other as if to warm it, only to rerealize that his left arm was an appendage of metal and shivering. He glared up at Elliot, slightly wounded. Was that really _necessary?_  
  
Didn't know if you were going to flail or not, Elliot answered calmly. You're lucky you were unconscious for most of the time I was pulling those things out of you. And don't give me any of that nonsense about bad experiences' with doctors....  
  
Wasn't plannin' to, Vincent responded, fishing his cigarettes out of his pants pockets and lighting one up. (His pants were the only piece of clothing left on his poor, pallid body.) He set down the pack and lighter on the table and took a drag, lightly tracing the contours of the scars that lined his chest absentmindedly with his gold claw. I don't remember much of any of that, anyway. A dark look flashed across his visage. El.... that guy---the bartender---he knew something...  
  
Elliot paused for a moment (he'd picked up the bowel and had been rinsing off the instruments in the sink.)  
  
he said quietly. He continued the washing motions. It wouldn't be a good idea to go after him at the moment, however. His bar is probably teeming with vermin at the moment, hoping you'll come back and join them. So don't.  
  
Don't, don't, don't, Vincent grumbled in aggravation, sliding off the table and pacing around the room. Well, what _am_ I supposed to do, then, huh?!  
  
I've no idea, Elliot responded, turning back towards his comrade. He closed his eyes, sighing as he ran his fingers through his blonde hair and leaned back against the sink's cabinet. Vincent glanced up at him momentarily, just in time to see him stretch his neck sideways and expose the right side of his face. It was stark-white and wrinkled like the skin of an old man, but worse, as if candlewax had been layered on his skin, melted down to his chest, molded into gruesome shapes, and then left there to rot.  
  
The badly-scarred man opened his eyes again---a sharp, cynical blue---and Vincent looked away, embarrassed for staring in morbid curiosity even after knowing the man for a long while. Elliot was silent, but not coldly. This quiet was one more calculative than annoyed. Vincent played along, sitting down in one of the chairs in the small living area that had been taken from the table and snuffing out the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray stand beside him. More impulsively than suddenly, he grabbed his sunglasses (also in his pockets) and put them on his face, glaring up towards Elliot as the blonde arched his normal eyebrow. (The one on his right side was filled with gaps of hair where bad gashes had once been.)  
  
Is there really a need, he mocked Vincent's previous question, for _those_ down _here?_  
  
Vincent answered lightly, getting up from his seat.  
  
Elliot responded, kneeling down and reaching for something under the sink. You should rest up even if you think that body of yours is done healing already. You can take my bed if you want; I'll sleep on the couch-------_WHAT_ are you _doing....?_  
  
Going out, Vincent shrugged. He'd slunk over to the closet and put a white, collared shirt on and was now donning his coat, along with a black winter scarf---Elliot's. He picked up his remaining glove and dangled it in the air dubiously before sliding it backwards onto the exposed part of his left claw. He shivered and slid his bare hand into one of his coat pockets. Damn.... it's gonna be freezing over there....  
  
'Over _there...?_' Elliot narrowed his eyes. You're going on over to Wall Market, aren't you?  
  
Vincent grunted in response. He was pulling on his boots and lacing them up. I need a new glove... and new info.  
  
Elliot murmured quietly, putting a hand to the scarred side of his face. They'll be crawling the streets right now---searching... They know you were injured.  
  
Vincent let out a laugh as he strode to the door and turned the wheel to open it. At this time of year? The only ones who go over there are the die-hard drunks and womanizers. And me.  
  
What a loyal shopper, Elliot said dryly, his eyes following Vincent's path.  
  
Fuck, you really should get to know this city better if you really need to know where to save me from the bad guys, Vincent shook his head a bit condescendingly.  
  
Oh, but I do know it well, Elliot gave one of his dangerous smiles that could freeze over hell if it wanted to and Vincent realized automatically that he'd lost the exchange of banter. Uh, all right. I.... guess I'll be going, then.  
  
Of course. Ciao.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
